The Downstairs Girl Page 14

  “Still strangers,” I say crisply, willing my heart to pipe down. Bear is nowhere to be seen. I briskly hand Nathan the column and then step back. “Please pardon the delay. What did your mother think of ‘The Custom-ary’?”

  “She agreed it was very good. But I am sorry. We are a moderate newspaper. She worries that if we print something too, er, radical, they will call us carpetbaggers. We would go out of business.”

  “I understand.” I hide my disappointment in a brisk and forward manner. “Please tell her not to worry. I am a seasoned professional, not some ingenue who will cry into her handkerchief at the slightest rejection. If one column doesn’t serve, I move on to the next.” I dust off my gloved hands with two quick movements.

  “Delighted to hear it.”

  “Any new subscriptions?”

  “Yes. Ninety-seven!”

  I gasp and clap my hands. “Ninety-seven! That is swell!”

  “All thanks to you.” With a grand sweep of his arms, he bows low to me.

  I hear myself giggling and stop immediately. “Ahem. Well, I don’t have all night. Does this column serve?”

  Nathan, who has started to move his feet back and forth in a lilting gavotte, abruptly straightens. “Oh, er, let me see.” When he is done, a smile skims his face. “Very serviceable. Certainly puts the male pressures in perspective.”

  I shouldn’t linger, but when the window is opened, the breeze always floats through. “Which pressures are those, Mr. Bell?” I hug the undyed coat to me, rooted to the spot by the certainty that I am about to learn something very intriguing about Nathan, something I would never hear eavesdropping.

  “Well, er, the pressure of providing for a family.”

  At least that is a nobler concern than that voiced by Merritt Payne. “Your parents have given you a noble profession.” A profession that Lizzie Crump has no reservations entertaining.

  “Noble, yes.” He bends his neck to one side, and a joint pops. “But a printer’s life means late hours. Constant soot. Work that wears the fingers to the bone . . .” His eyes drift back toward the print shop. I can’t help wondering if he is thinking about his mother.

  I adjust my hat, which has scooted so far down on my forehead as to act as a blinder. “Late hours. Constant soot. It sounds dreadful. If it is such a concern for you, you could always prepare a disclaimer, much like the horse breeders do.”

  His eyes crimp. “That would certainly give new meaning to the word mare-ried.”

  “Yes. ‘Here comes the bridle.’”

  He tucks his chin, hiding his grin, just as I conceal one under my scarf. But I must shake myself loose of the sticky web that has trapped us both. “Mr. Bell, I seem to have used up all my stationery.”

  “Say no more. If there’s one thing we have, it’s paper. Payne Mills supplies ours at a good discount. It’s one of the reasons we can afford to stay in business.”

  “Payne Mills?”

  “My father and Mr. Payne attended Yale together.”

  “Oh.” I’m not sure which surprises me more, that Mr. Bell knows Mr. Payne or the other way around. He disappears for a moment, and when he returns, he passes me a package whose weight suggests a fifth ream of a hundred sheets, plus a box of envelopes. “There you go. Enough for several letters and maybe a few memoirs while you’re at it.”

  “Is that a comment on my age?” I snap.

  “No, only your experience, which of course must be vast.” He leans forward, as if to catch a glimpse under my hat.

  I recoil so quickly, I give myself a crick in the neck. “Of course it is. Well then, good night.”

  “Before you leave, I have been doing some thinking. You see, I’d attributed Bear’s poor manners to a regression in training. But she also gets excited when she encounters people with whom she has developed an affection. She starts herding them, as if she wants to protect them.”

  A cold sweat makes me itch to molt my clothes and slither away. But I don’t move a muscle.

  “Is it possible that we . . . know each other?” The words fly like darts looking for a mark.

  It takes me a moment to recover my wits. “There are some people, when you meet them, you feel as if you’ve known them all your life. And then there are people who live under your nose all your life, yet you don’t know them at all. Perhaps the same is true for dogs. I bid you good night.”

  I leave him to untangle that and stumble away. I can’t help feeling that despite the layers, he has somehow managed to see right through me.

  Twenty

  Salt and Pepper swirl through the front door of the Payne Estate like soap bubbles pushed in by a breeze, their faces glowing.

  Salt looks especially fetching in a dress of watermelon pink, her plush smile brimming with pleasantries. She dips side to side as I help her remove her coat. There’s a giddy energy about her that makes even her Eau de Lilac perfume bounce around in my nose. “Guess how we got here?” Salt asks Caroline, who sashays down the staircase at a regal pace.

  “Adam and Eve had too much time on their hands?” Caroline says dryly.

  “No. Bicycles!” Salt claps her gloved hands. “Miss Sweetie called them ‘freedom machines,’ and they are such fun.”

  The sneeze building in my nose screeches to a halt, like the rest of me. It wasn’t just my imagination. More women are trying out the safeties.

  Salt runs a hand down each narrow sleeve. “We ‘exercised our limbs.’”

  I swear Caroline turns a shade of green equal to Pepper’s mossy dress. She trudges to the drawing room without even waiting for her guests.

  Pepper sheds her coat and hands it to me. “Thank you, Jo. Remember this hat? You made it for me last spring, and it’s still my favorite.”

  “Of course, miss. I’m pleased you still like it.” The color sets off her eyes, and the pheasant feather is still tight and shiny.

  In the drawing room, the ladies arrange themselves around the card table, and Noemi pushes out the tray.

  Salt tugs off her riding gloves with delicate plucks of her fingers and tucks them into a fashionable chatelaine bag that hangs from her waist. “It only took us two days to learn the safeties. You should’ve seen all the looks we got from the boys.”

  “There’s only one boy who should matter,” Pepper chastises. “Mr. Q accepted Melly-Lee’s invitation to the horse race.”

  Caroline goes from moss green to shiny eggplant. I pour the lemonade as unobtrusively as possible, certain I hear a gun cocking somewhere.

  “Somebody deal the cards while I still have a full deck,” Caroline snaps.

  Pepper reaches for the cards, while Salt helps herself to an egg salad sandwich from Noemi’s tray. “Oh, Noemi, you are a peach. I was hoping you’d make these today.” She lifts the sandwich to her mouth, but then her arm knocks her glass. A wet clunk-crack freezes everyone in place.

  “Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, I’m so clumsy.” Grabbing her napkin, Salt dabs at the lemonade splashed on her dress.

  Caroline groans, and Pepper pushes away from the table. Noemi alights to the kitchen.

  “Are you all right, Miss Saltworth?” I press a dishcloth to the spill and gather glass shards into a pile. Noemi returns with a broom and pan and fresh towels.

  “Yes,” Salt says shakily. “I’m sorry, I guess I was a bit overexcited. Caroline, may I borrow a dress?”

  Caroline flicks her cards on the table. “Jo will show you to my chambers.”

  “Follow me, miss.”

  In Caroline’s room, I swing open the wardrobe, and the powdery scent of her sachets wages battle with Salt’s lilac perfume. Salt selects a simple frock with bows at the wrists. I help her undress. She removes her chatelaine from her wet dress and then hands the dress to me. “Would you mind helping me rinse this out?”

  “Of course, miss.”

  “Caroline i
s lucky to have you.” She glances behind me, and then leans closer. “But should you ever find yourself unemployed again, I do hope you’ll let me know.” She winks.

  How interesting. I’m tempted to take her offer right there and then, but I manage restraint. Though Salt has always treated me kindly, sometimes a known tiger in one’s mountain beats an unknown tiger in the mountain next door. At least for now. “Thank you, miss, I will.”

  For the rest of Salt and Pepper’s visit, Caroline curbs her tongue, both in the dishing-out and the dishing-in. By the time she is primping for her afternoon ride, a den of lions has moved into her stomach. “Bring up the leftover sandwiches at once.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  When I return to her chambers, Mrs. Payne and Caroline are having a row. Caroline jumps up from her vanity, where she has been applying her skin cream, and helps herself to the egg salad sandwiches, groaning as she eats. “I promised Annie I would visit. Her mama has been feeling poorly.”

  “Then perhaps Annie should attend her mama instead of receiving you.”

  “You told me a lady only misses appointments if she is in peril of life or limb.” Caroline’s chewing slows, and her mouth smacks as if tasting what’s in it, though she must have eaten Noemi’s egg salad a thousand times.

  Mrs. Payne sits very still, probably wanting to put Caroline in peril of her life or limb. I’m reminded of the time I watched the family telephone, certain it was about to ring. Moments later, it did. Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of a good ringing. I grab Caroline’s mending basket and begin to leave.

  “Why does this sandwich taste . . . peppery?” Without warning, Caroline sneezes into her sleeve, three times.

  “Good heavens.” Mrs. Payne sniffs at the remaining sandwich. She takes a cautious nibble. “I don’t taste pepper.”

  When Caroline emerges from her sleeve, her face is blotchy. “I feel so hot!” She jumps to her feet and grabs a fan from her dressing table, waving it with such vigor that I feel it from across the room. Mrs. Payne opens a window.

  “Shall I fetch cool water?” I ask.

  “Ice! Ice!” pants Caroline.

  I carry Caroline’s tray downstairs and, once in the kitchen, sample the sandwich myself. I don’t taste pepper either. But then my eyes fall to the tin of white pepper Noemi used for Merritt’s hangover cure, right by the butter crock. Pepper is power. It solves a lot of problems you don’t expect it to.

  Taking a bowl and an ice pick, I make for the cellar, which lies just outside the kitchen door. An uneasiness has begun pecking at my skin. A few hundred feet toward the stables, Noemi’s large straw hat moves through the herbs. Noticing me, she salutes me with a carrot. I force a smile and wave.

  Sunlight rinses the room when I lift the cellar door. The scent of turnips stirs my stomach. During one unbearably hot day, Noemi joined Caroline and me down here, one of the few times Noemi’s mother allowed her to join us. Caroline dared me to eat a raw turnip. Noemi told me not to do it, but I, five years old, didn’t listen. The taste put me off turnips forever, but more important, it taught me that Noemi could be trusted, Caroline, not.

  I unwrap the blocks of Hudson River ice and chip a few pieces into my bowl.

  The water in my pitcher sloshes as I ferry it and the bowl of ice up three flights of stairs, passing Mrs. Payne using the telephone on the second floor.

  Etta Rae glances up at me from the breakfast table, where she’s fanning Caroline with two peacock fans. “The fire’s over here.”

  “Why did you take so long?” Caroline face is red and swollen, as if she’d stuck it into a beehive. “Oh, it burns! Make it stop!” She fans her face with her hands, which are also inflamed.

  I set the bowl on the table and fill it with water. Etta Rae is about to dip a dishcloth into the water when Caroline dunks her entire face into the bowl.

  Water spills everywhere. Etta Rae puts her dishcloth to work. “Easy, Miss Caroline.”

  Caroline reappears, water streaming down her cheeks, turning her silk riding habit from blue to black.

  Etta Rae clucks her tongue. “The doctor will be here soon. He’ll have an ointment or some such. You’ll be fine.”

  “I certainly will not be fine! That nigra ruined my looks. She’s ruined me!”

  “It’s just temporary. Like when you got the poison ivy. Jo, fetch more ice.”

  Noemi’s smiling face appears in my head, and my teeth clench. I clutch at the banister as I hurry downstairs, feeling suddenly unsteady on my feet. It will take more than ice to soothe Caroline’s wrath.

  Twenty-One

  Dear Miss Sweetie,

  I get shucks in the foot from time to time and my freind told me to salt a tomato and wrap it around the shuck and after a day the shuck will pop out, and I wunder if it is true.

  Much oblijed,

  Shuck in the Foot

  Dear Shuck in the Foot,

  That seems like a waste of a good tomato, and not much good for a splinter out of season. The simplest solution is already in your cupboard: vinegar. Soak the foot in a bowl of vinegar, and in about twenty minutes, the splinter should have broken through the skin enough to pull out.

  Yours truly,

  Miss Sweetie

  P.S. Do not reuse the vinegar.

  * * *

  —

  The doctor leaves calamine lotion, saying her rash should be gone in a few days. If only there were a salve for her foul temperament, we might all rest more comfortably.

  I carry a basket of wet things down the stairs, but stop when I see Etta Rae standing just outside the kitchen holding a vase of bluebells. She puts her finger to her lips as I creep closer, professional eavesdropper that I am, and though she frowns at me, she doesn’t shoo me away.

  “No, ma’am,” Noemi says. “Celery, onion, pickles, mustard, oil, vinegar, lemon juice, and salt. Like always.”

  “What about the bread?”

  “Potato buns ain’t got pepper.”

  A long pause follows, during which Etta Rae and I exchange worried expressions.

  “Take tomorrow off,” Mrs. Payne says at last. “The weekend, too. Caroline will need rest and quiet, and—”

  And she will need to be convinced that Noemi has not tried to poison her.

  Etta Rae’s usually erect head seems to sink into her thin shoulders.

  “I understand, ma’am,” Noemi says hoarsely.

  The sound of Mrs. Payne’s boots straightens our postures. Etta Rae busies herself arranging the flowers on a table. I continue toward the kitchen, sidestepping Mrs. Payne coming out. “Oh, Jo. I’m afraid the sight of Caroline’s face will shock her when she wakes up. Find all her looking glasses and put them in my study.”

  “Yes, ma’am. What about her vanity?”

  “Solomon will take care of the vanity. Etta Rae, please call for one of our substitute cooks.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Etta Rae heads toward the staircase.

  I move toward the kitchen again with the wet laundry, wanting to talk to Noemi, but Mrs. Payne blocks the doorway. “Now, Jo.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” With heavy feet, I follow Etta Rae.

  * * *

  —

  IN THE ROW in front of me, the hackle feather of a white woman’s flowerpot hat wags like a finger every time the streetcar hits a pothole. The invisible line between the front and the back takes shape with every ride. Only whites sit in rows one and two. Rows three through five vary, depending on the passengers.

  “Adelle Jones was arrested yesterday for not getting up fast enough when a mother with child wanted her seat,” whispers a woman from behind me.

  “Ain’t Adelle pregnant, too?” says another woman.

  “Yes.”

  My mind returns to Noemi. Come on, Miss Sweetie, think. Noemi would never have taken such a chance.
She has too much to lose and too little to gain. Caroline’s rash must have been caused by someone or something else. Spring allergies again? Maybe an insect bit her. Once, a spider stung Lucky Yip on the earlobe, and his ear swelled to the size of his palm.

  His palm. Caroline’s palms were also inflamed.

  Her tin of Beetham’s Glycerine and Cucumber cream appears in my mind. She spread it on her face just before eating. Is she allergic to it? She’s used it without problem before, but things can turn on you, like eggs.

  The Beetham’s had just arrived and must have been fresh. Did someone tamper with it? I can think of few people who wouldn’t stick a foot in her path if given the opportunity, including myself.

  Salt. The spilt lemonade. Perhaps Caroline tasted pepper not from her sandwich but her face cream. Salt’s detachable chatelaine bag surely could’ve hidden a pinch of pepper. If Salt knows about Caroline and Mr. Q, she’d have every reason to despise Caroline. Maybe, beneath those frothy pink layers, Salt is as cunning as a foldable sunhat.

  * * *

  —

  THE NEXT MORNING, Caroline lies in her bed, orbited by a ring of pillows and holding her potted violet. Her face is no longer swollen, but blisters form peer groups on her skin, including a popular crowd on her forehead.

  Mrs. Payne throws open the windows. “A little powder, and no one will even notice.”

  Moving as unobtrusively as possible, I exchange a bowl of rosemary tincture for Caroline’s plant.

  With a scowl, she soaks her hands in the herbal remedy. “That witch did this on purpose. She should be locked up, but you send her away for a few days. Imagine what she’ll do if you take her back? She’ll poison me for sure, and then you won’t have to worry about whether I marry, as I’ll be dead.”

  Mrs. Payne pops a spoonful of medicine into her mouth. “Rest easy, dear. Jo, when you get a moment, please come see me in the stables.” She breezes away.