However, the horse race is not one of these occasions. Public invitations do not care what you think of them. They speak plainly. Why should a lady who chooses to ask a gent to the race be “ruining her reputation,” rather than simply obliging her hosts’ wishes? When deception is not at issue, words should be taken at their face value,or they are in danger of losing currency. So, ladies, quit your stalling. Your steed may not be available furlong.
—
If my offer interests you, you may simply print the article, and I will know to deliver a new one. I am a private person and do not wish to make known my identity for personal reasons.
Yours sincerely,
I shake out my hand, wondering what to name myself. It should be something unique and memorable, a name no one else has. Our horse comes to mind. I had named her Sweet Potato because of her gentle and solid nature. Something with the wordsweetwould be perfect, to temper the more provocative nature of the articles I would pen.Miss Sweetie, I write with a flourish. Then I cautiously uncork the listening tube. A chair scrapes the floor. Nathan’s shoes tap evenly across to the wall and back again, followed by the scrabble of Bear’s paws. She woofs, but not toward the vent, to my immense relief.
The knowledge that the person to whom I am writing is also writing just one floor above makes my shadow sit up straighter, and if shadows had smiles, I might see one reflected there.
I seal the paper with the candle wax. My legs bounce, itching to deliver it, but I must wait until tonight.
Too fired up to eat, I rummage through the crates Old Gin keeps in his room, hoping to find another pair of gloves. Most of the uncles took their scant belongings with them when they left, but oddments remain, like Lucky Yip’s favorite cushionand Hammer Foot’s two-string fiddle, which for obvious reasons he rarely used.
Not finding gloves, I restack the crates, and my eyes catch on a rolled-up rug standing in the corner. It’s been there so long, it almost looks like part of the wall. We could use a rug like that under the spool table to cushion Old Gin’s creaky ankles.
The rug fights me when I drag it from its corner, spitting dust and making me sneeze. I unroll it, and to my surprise, a set of clothes drops out: a navy suit with fine French seams, a four-ply linen collared shirt, a coat of undyed wool, and one barely scratched pair of black-and-white Balmoral boots. No wonder the rug was so heavy.
Whoever wore the clothes was taller than either Hammer Foot or Lucky Yip and slim in build. He certainly dressed finer than the typical laborer. Maybe he was a gambler. If so, Old Gin would never have allowed him to live with us. But he must have been someone important to Old Gin; otherwise, why not sell the clothes?
I am fitting the rug under our spool table when I hear Old Gin’s narrow step approaching. Freshly scrubbed and smelling of cedar, he hangs his coat and cap on a wall hook. He frowns at the mostly blue-speckled rug, then tests the springiness with his toe. “Fits well here, but I see you have been too busy redecorating to eat.”
“I wasn’t hungry until now.” My lowered voice sounds chirpier than normal, and I busy myself working the meat off the drumstick. “Please, I can’t finish both.” I gesture to the second drumstick with my knife.
“If you only eat one, you will walk lopsided.”
I wait for his face to break, but it doesn’t. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if he’s joking.
“I found clothes, too, and a pair of Balmorals. Who did they belong to?”
He doesn’t turn around from where he’s pouring himself tea at the stove. “One of the uncles. You wouldn’t remember him.”
“Well, they are fine clothes. The Balmorals alone will fetch ten dollars.”
He dries his hands on the towel by the stove, then settles himself on his milking stool. “I will take care of it.” Reaching toward me, he pulls something from my ear: a bluebell, one of the deep violet beauties that grow along the Paynes’ hedges. A grin spreads across his face. “Mrs. Payne will see you tomorrow about a position.”
I take the bluebell and twirl it between my fingers. “What position?”
He pauses, as if readying the words before sending them out. “Weekday maid. For Caroline.”
“Caroline?” The name of the Paynes’ only daughter douses me with cold water.
“She returned from finishing school last month.”
I grimace. “You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“Well, I don’t know how to be a lady’s maid.”
At my dismissive tone, Old Gin’s uneven ears twitch. He interlaces his fingers and shakes his hands at the wrist, a “good fortune” gesture to keep away the monkeys of mischief.
I sigh. The wildflower doesn’t complain when the horse waters it. It is just thankful for the moisture. I should be gratefulfor Old Gin’s devotion, and willing to do my share. After a day of beating the rug for any paying crumbs that might shake loose, a real job drops in my lap, and I react as if it were a hairy spider. “Forgive me, Father.”
He stretches his ankles, and they make cracking sounds. “Caroline is older now. You are older, too, hm?” Despite his mild tone, he sees right through me.
My pickled tomato is so sour, I chase it with water. A long-buried memory of being locked in a rusted bin during hide-and-seek on the Payne Estate bubbles to the surface. When Old Gin finally found me, I had wet myself, and my voice was raw from yelling. Though Caroline was only seven and I was five, and plenty of vile nippers grow into well-mannered adults, I doubt she is one of them. A cockroach will always be a nasty, horrible insect.
