The Downstairs Girl Read online

  “She has grown into a fine animal,” he adds. “Smart, like you.”

  Aside from the awkwardness of being dismissed, a job at the Payne Estate is nothing to sneer at, with its luxurious surroundings, plentiful food, and a usually fair, albeit distant mistress. Of course, Mrs. Payne’s daughter, Caroline, was a horse of a different color altogether, but she was away at finishing school.

  Old Gin swirls his cup, gazing at the contents.

  Would Mrs. Payne really have me back? “Bad eggs, once tossed out, aren’t usually put back in the basket.”

  Old Gin trains his placid gaze on the kerosene lamp above us, and it’s as if my words are standing in line behind another thought. But after a moment, he says, “You were never a bad egg.” He sniffs, as though verifying his claim. The sniff sets off a quake in his chest, but he clamps his mouth shut, refusing to let the cough boil over. He lifts himself from his milking stool and takes a moment to scoot it back in place. Instead of saying good night, he nods, then pads creakily toward his “quarters.”

  After a rushed tidying, I retreat to my own corner under the print shop, passing through the curtain door Old Gin had embroidered with horses. When the uncles moved away, he suggested I move to a less noisy section under the main house where he lives, but I love my snuggery, softened by a rug I braided out of old flannel. Not to mention, I refuse to be parted from the speaking tube, the only way I can eavesdrop on the Bells.

  After slipping into my nightgown and thick socks, I stretch over the raised platform of my bed. From the opening above my pillow, I remove the wool plug that stops sound from traveling up our end of the speaking tube.

  A light draft flows in from above, and the flame in my oil lamp wavers from its place on my crate nightstand. Mr. Bell’s three-beat pacing echoes down to me. Though I don’t know the exact mathematical equation, Old Gin believes the “hearable” space encompasses the area around the Bells’ worktable, roughly matching my corner.

  They’re arguing. I pray it has nothing to do with a discovery of rats in the basement.

  “Sixteen hundred subscribers, while that fish wrapper the Trumpeter has broken three thousand. Curse that ridiculous Advice from Aunt Edna column,” thunders the publisher. “It’s embarrassing.” His voice only comes in two levels: loud and louder. I imagine his ruddy face with its fleshy eye pads growing bright with indignation.

  I release my breath. It pains me to hear Mr. Bell upset, but at least it is not over Old Gin and me.

  Circulation for the Focus has recently taken a nosedive, after Nathan’s risky editorial criticizing a proposal to segregate Atlanta’s streetcars, while the similar-size Trumpeter has soared, thanks to its new agony aunt column. The family sheepdog, Bear, short for Forbearance, sounds out a hearty woof, and her tail begins thumping. Unlike most sheepdogs, Bear’s tail was never docked. I like to imagine the Great Shepherd put her heartbeat in her tail and wanted it kept intact.

  “We could add more pictures,” says Nathan, pronouncing the last word pitchas. Unlike his parents, who hail from New England, a light drawl rubs some of the letters from his words. Old Gin says the Georgia accent rubbed off on me, too. “The Trumpeter has at least two per page.”

  “A waste of space. Pictures are for children.”

  The room falls silent. Even Bear’s tail stops thumping. I can almost feel the rise in Nathan’s temperature, and my heart reaches for him. Nathan is my oldest friend, even if he doesn’t know it. We have much in common, including a love of goobers (what Nathan calls peanuts), a distaste for turnips, and a longing to be heard.

  Wood scrapes the floor, probably Nathan pouring himself into one of the worktable chairs. I imagine him sketching out his frustration into one of his political cartoons, art that could easily be featured in Puck magazine.

  “Where is your article on hickory fungus?” Mr. Bell booms. “Folks want to know why their trees are stunted.”

  “I’m waiting for it to grow on me,” grumbles Nathan. If I had to have a husband one day, I hope he would have a quick wit, like Nathan, minus his grouchiness.

  “If it’s parasites you want,” he adds, “let me write that exposé on Billy Riggs. The Constitution’s too gutless to write the real story.”

  The Constitution called Billy a “fixer,” but the Bells believe Billy trades in dirty secrets. Last year, the heir to a bourbon fortune hanged himself after a rival revealed the heir preferred the company of men. The Bells suspected the information was bought and sold by Billy Riggs.

  Mr. Bell snorts loudly. “The end might be near, but I won’t be burnt at the stake of scandal!”

  “Yes, yes,” Mrs. Bell smooths. My ears perk up. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if she’s in the room, as she walks with the heft of a mosquito. “Well, there’ll be a scandal if you miss the early train. Better turn in now.”

  Mr. Bell always travels to New York in the spring to meet with the Focus’s sponsors. The sound of grumbles is followed by footfalls as the publisher departs.

  Eavesdropping is a vile habit. But I have been eavesdropping on the Bells ever since I had ears, and I doubt I can change now. Their words comforted me on many a lonely night and made me feel like part of a family. The abolitionists who built this place cleverly disguised the upstairs end of the speaking tube to resemble a vent. Bet they never expected someone like me would be eavesdropping. Who could’ve anticipated that when the enslaved were freed, Chinese would be shipped in, not just to replace them on the plantations, but to help rebuild the South?

  A broom scratches the floor as Mrs. Bell wages her nightly war against carbon soot. I imagine the straw bundle snooping under the worktable, the foot-operated press, and the type case. Bear woofs, chasing the broom.

  “Let me do that.”

  “I like sweeping. Please, just humor your father. If things don’t go well in New York, it won’t matter what we write.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if things don’t go well’?”

  I hold my breath, my fingers twisted into my flannel nightgown.

  “Most of our Northern sponsors have given up floating a paper down here. If we don’t return to two thousand subscribers by April, we are done.”

  “But April’s only four weeks away. We’d need a hundred new subscribers a week. Impossible.”

  “Maybe it’s time for us to move to Aunt Susannah’s—”

  “We’re not alfalfa farmers. I don’t even like alfalfa. It’s a joke of a word. Rearrange the letters and it’s a-laf-laf. Those sponsors need to give us more time.”

  I worry a hole into the toe of my sock. Never did it occur to me that the Bells might move. Is that why she came to Mrs. English’s? To give me an implicit goodbye?

  “What does the Trumpeter have that we lack?” asks Nathan.

  Mrs. Bell snorts. “Advice from Aunt Edna.” Her broom scratches even harder. “Well, maybe we’ll get more subscriptions at that horse race.”

  The race kicks off debutante season, and everyone who lives on the top branch will want to be seen. Those of us on the bottom branch would be content just to see the horses, but tickets cost two dollars each.

  “What did you say?”

  I press the right side of my head up against the opening.

  “I said, maybe we’ll get more—”

  “No, before that. Advice from Aunt Edna. If we had an agony aunt column, we could improve our readership. What do women, er, like? Laundry tips?” He lets out half a grunt. Probably his mother pinched him.

  “Sometimes you’re as dense as your father.” Bear adds a woof! “Women get enough household advice from Aunt Edna. Someone should write about meatier topics. Like how to get a bunion of a husband to listen to you. Or what to do if the butcher tries to gull you with an inferior cut of meat.”

  Gull. Such a great word, though I doubt the seagulls love having their good name tied to trickery. I’ll add it to the G-words
I chalked on my wall. Mr. Payne gave Old Gin our dictionary, which is intact except for the G section, so I give those words a place here.

  “Why don’t you write one?” Nathan asks.

  “I’d have to run it by your father.”

  Nathan groans. “Forget I mentioned it.”

  The upstairs grows silent, and I plug the listening tube. We are careful never to leave the open tube unattended.

  If the Bells go out of business, they would leave, and they are like family. Old Gin might even decide it’s time to find me a husband with a “fleshy nose,” the kind thought to accumulate wealth. Chinese bachelors are so desperate for wives, they spend hundreds of dollars fetching them from China, many younger than my seventeen years. I’d have my pick of noses and all the bitterness I could stomach.

  Four

  Dear Miss Sweetie,

  I am a young woman with no dowry, and I have enough hair on my upper lip to resemble a dead ferret. Despite this, a certain mister professes he is in love with me. How can I believe him?

  Maiden with a Mustachio

  Dear Maiden,

  Sometimes love just stumbles into you, out of the blue, and no amount of facial hair can divert you from its path.

  Sincerely yours,

  Miss Sweetie

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, I don my russet dress and button my pebbled-goat-leather boots. Then I take the western corridor up to the “tree” exit, assailed by the scent of wet dirt and tree roots. It must have been painstaking work for the abolitionists, digging and reinforcing these passages. But as Old Gin says, great souls have wills, while feeble souls, only wishes.

  I swing open the trapdoor and haul myself out.

  The heavy skirts of the Virginia cedar spread all around me, a tree as good at hiding secrets as keeping out snow. Foliage blocks the Bell residence fifty yards to the east, the boardinghouse to the north, and the soda factory to the south. Before exiting the copse of trees, I assure myself that no one is looking. A chill picks up the skin of my arms. I scan the area but see no one.

  Suddenly, a crow shoots from the bushes with a hard squawk, pulling my heart out of my throat.

  “Sneaky old flapper,” I mutter as my heart settles back into my chest. Nothing better to do than scare respectable girls hiding in trees. I wish it were a bat, a word that sounds like the Chinese word for “luck.” The bats here seem to be waking from their winter slumber later than usual, maybe waiting for the peaches to ripen.

  Bending the rim of my misfit hat to shadow my face, I hoof toward the main business district. Had I a mother, she would no doubt be troubled by the ease at which I travel unaccompanied. Thankfully, growing up, Old Gin allowed me to wear trousers, which were more practical for my work as a stable girl. He also allowed me to learn basic self-defense from Hammer Foot, the other uncle I remembered, who had been raised by Shaolin monks. Shaolin requires many years of unerring devotion to master, but my “Hammer Foot” move almost broke Lucky Yip’s ankle. May I have a lucky strike today, too.

  * * *

  —

  BY THREE O’CLOCK, I’ve made over two dozen inquiries. For my troubles, I net seventeen doors and one window closed on my face; two offers of employment as a “chambermaid” that certainly involved chambers, but not the cleaning of them; one twisted ankle from a crone who sicced her dog on me; and one offer to dye cloth, which was revoked as soon as the mistress saw me limping. I count myself fortunate; Lucky Yip once got a dog sicced on him who tore open his knee. Despite his name, he wasn’t very lucky.

  All the determination I felt earlier bleeds into the sidewalks.

  A drunken chorus from somewhere ahead diverts my path onto a narrower street I usually avoid on account of the smell. “Carcass Alley” features both a butchery and a mortuary, though I think the real stench blows in from the courthouse down the street, which has never allowed a Chinese to win a single lawsuit. A sagging dwelling with flaking paint seems to cough with every bang of a woman’s hammer as she works to nail a sign into one of its posts. ROOM AVAILABLE. The iron banisters to the doorway have rusted, and several windows are missing their glass. Who would pay to live in a wreck like that?

  I bite my tongue, lest the monkeys of mischief hear my thoughts.

  “How much is the room?” I call up to her. Chinese aren’t actually allowed to own land or rent—Old Gin and the other bachelors had squatted in a cluster of ramshackle shanties before I was born—but for the right price, folks could be persuaded to look the other way.

  The woman twists around, and her eyes clinch at the sight of me. “Too much for you. Y’ar kind is likely to trek in nits, plus I bet you smoke black tar.” She ducks into the house and lets the door swing shut behind her.

  My fingernails have lodged themselves in my palms, and I extract them with a slow breath. I don’t want to live here, anyway. The only worse abode would be Collins Street, and Old Gin would never let us inhabit that crime pit. I hobble away, my steps tight and quick.

  Before the train crossing, people crowd bright food stalls, thick as bees on honeycomb. When the sidewalk grows too crowded, anyone not white takes to the street. Old Gin always instructed the uncles to give way—the river travels the fastest path by moving around the stones—though he never made me walk in the streets.

  Leaning against a lamppost, I stretch out my ankle and breathe into it. Hammer Foot said we could move energy through our body through focused breathing. The scent of sausages tempts me into parting with the dime I brought for emergencies. I resist and redirect my nose to a poster on the nearest building, one of the many that has excited a fervor in ladies like Salt and Pepper.

  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.

  DATE: Saturday, March 22

  TICKETS: $2 per person, proceeds to benefit the Society for the Betterment of Women.

  SPONSORS: Bids to sponsor one of the twelve contestants will be accepted until March 15. Please mark your bid “Horse Race” and send to 420 Peachtree Street. Sponsor of the winning horse will receive a year of free advertising in the Constitution.

  NOTE: In the spirit of the Society for the Betterment of Women, ladies may ask gentlemen.

  FURTHER NOTE: No public drunkenness will be tolerated.

  It is curious that Mrs. Payne chose to make the race a turnaround event where ladies ask men. I never considered her progressive, even if she did once let a Chinese girl work in her house. The Payne Estate will be busy. Perhaps that is why Old Gin believes there may be extra work.

  When my ankle stops throbbing, I continue toward the crossing. Next to Union Station, benches are arranged back to back for those awaiting the train. My feet slow when I notice a bundle of white-and-gray fur. It’s a sheepdog, its tail thumping the worn boots of the man on the nearest bench.

  Great geese, it’s Nathan Bell.

  “Keep moving!” barks the crossing guard, gesturing with his flags.

  Instead of crossing the tracks—seven in all—I duck behind an abandoned dray with a broken wheel and pull my hat low. Nathan has never seen me, of course, and that is how I want to keep it. I marvel at the coincidence of seeing him the day after his mother, though the Chinese believe coincidence is just destiny unfolding.

  I should hurry on. Traffic streams by me while the crossing remains open. But curiosity keeps me rooted. I never allowed myself more than a quick glance through the print shop windows. I think he is silently condemning a cigar butt on the pavement, until a breeze blows the nub away, and Nathan’s gaze remains fixed. In fact, his ear is cocked in the direction of two ladies seated behind him, their hats bent toward each other.

  Nathan is . . . eavesdropping? Not only that, but jotting notes in a journal. Now, that is bold. O
f course, I do a little eavesdropping myself, but never mind that now. Perhaps he is writing an article. Certainly not one about hickory fungus.

  I maneuver to the front of the dray. Nathan’s spindly fingers work his pencil, the dark slashes of his eyebrows crouched low on his face. Hammer Foot, whose own eyebrows were plucked as a boy and never regrew, said folks with crouching eyebrows prefer the comfort of shadows. I always considered Nathan’s face unremarkable. But the more I study it, the more interesting it grows: sturdy chin; deep-set eyes in dove gray that take in more than they give away; and a no-nonsense nose that will do a decent job supporting the spectacles he will need one day with all the fine print he sets. A grouchy Homburg in soil brown holds itself stiffly at the brim despite a droopy crown. You can tell a lot about a person by their choice of headgear.

  A bark shocks me from my thoughts. To my horror, Bear’s head swings toward me, though I can’t tell where her eyes are looking, or if the creature even has eyes underneath her mop of a head.

  Not two shakes later, Bear bounds over to me, woofing and bellowing like she’s discovered the world’s largest sheep. It’s uncanny that an animal with no eyes could have such accurate aim. Why am I so irresistible to the canine species? My ankle cowers, and I wish I had bought that sausage. Hammer Foot always said Do not engage an adversary; feed it.

  I dodge one way, then another, but the boot of my injured ankle catches on one of the ties. I fall in a heap right on the tracks. Frantically, I scramble backward, anticipating the teeth that could impale my limb like a drumstick. Something rips! My stockings—they’re wet. Dear God, am I bleeding?

  No. I am being . . . licked. “Stop! Please,” I beg the sheepdog.

  “Forbearance! Forbear this instant!” Nathan utters in a voice that could bend grass. The licking stops. I am vaguely aware of him pulling the dog away from me. Traffic carves a path around us with its stamping hooves and squeaking wheels.