He was twisting his hat now, visibly sweating.
“And when she does?”
He paused. Thought about it. Not for drama, but because the wheels were truly grinding upstairs.
“Well, I thought we might… I don’t know. Have some sort of contest. A chef. A book woman. A business lady.”
“A business lady…” I repeated, flatly filing that bit of knowledge away. “You could’ve said that at the train station and saved me the time.”
“That’s the same thing I told Major,” he blurted, his voice high with panic. “He made it seem like I had to—you know, like you’d come all this way…. And my brother is a terrible fright in a bad mood.”
So Major hadn’t justconvincedEaly to meet me at the station. He’d browbeat him like a wayward child. Like someone who couldn’t be trusted to do the right thing on his own.
“I have no interest in a contest,” I said. “Not for you. Not for anyone.”
And I hadn’t known how much I meant that until I heard it out loud.
For so long I had been wrapped up in status. Trying to make myself look better than Eliza in comparison—lighter, neater, more educated. I had been playing the game, believing there was a prize.
Ealy’s shoulders dropped, and he let out an even breath.
“Well, that relieves me,” he said, too quickly. “See, the townsfolk are keen to avoid scandal. This being one of the few colored towns so far west… And I only told them about aCaroline, so Bertha’s been forced to be, well… under my hat, as it were, and it’s a shame because…”
He looked me squarely in the face.
“Bertha’s the one you want,” I finished. Did I have to script myownrejection? Would the humiliations never cease? “Miss Trained in France?” I said, tone light as air.
He nodded.
“Mon Dieu,” I murmured, my voice all velvet and venom. If he flinched—and I think he did—it was well earned.
“Then I must meet her.”
Ealy lit up like he’d passed a test. He was so pleased with himself.
He gestured toward the far end of the kitchen. “Bertha, my love.”
A stout, flour-dusted woman turned around, rolling pin in hand. She looked like she’d lost a fight with a sack of dough. Her sleeves were damp with kitchen heat, her apron streaked in batter. Her face, round and honest, was obscured in a cloud of flour. But even through the haze, I could see it: panic.
The fire was low, the knives dull, and the only food I could see was a slab of salted pork and a basket of potatoes, neither of which seemed to be doing anything particularly French.
“Ah! Mademoiselle Bertha!” I greeted her in my best, most-fluid Parisian French. “Que prévoyez-vous de cuisiner pour le dîner?”
The plump woman went stiff. Absolutely rigid. Her mouth opened, then closed. Her fingers twitched around the rolling pin. Her eyes darted to Ealy, then back to me.
“Uh… omelette.” Bertha said it like she’d finally remembered a single word from a dream.
I blinked.
She blinked.
And we stood like that—two women who understood exactly what was happening, trapped on opposite ends of a lie.
Ealy beamed. “Bertha doesn’t want to confuse you. She’s more advanced than, say, your Louisiana Creole.”
I saw the fear in her eyes. Theplease don’twritten all over her face. Bertha was now gripping the rolling pin like it might double as a weapon. Like if I told Ealy this woman didn’t know any French, I would get my head cracked open for my trouble.
And I could’ve. God help me, I wanted to twist the knife. Play the clever girl. Blow the whole scheme open right there in the too-quiet kitchen, just so Ealy would know what he’d lost—and the whole town could hear it echo.
