Merritt had been standing on this very staircase, a few steps below me, when his mother dismissed me. Only seventeen then, he’d been wearing a ridiculously billowy shirt that spilled out over his tight breeches, as was the style. The air had been so wet, you could drink from it, and I’d rolled my sleeves up as far as they would go.
My legs wobble, and I grip the rail. Was Merritt the reason I was dismissed? Now that he is engaged, it is safe to bring me back. But I had always known my place.
I hurry to catch up with Mrs. Payne. On the third and highest floor, where the women’s chambers are located, the scent of the mahogany wood paneling swills acid in my stomach. It’s curious how even the faintest smells can inflict injuries. I recall the time Caroline accused me of losing her brooch. I searched on my hands and knees for an hour, before she showed me the brooch on her hat. “I wanted to see how long it took you to notice,” she said with a laugh.
Caroline pops her head out of her bedroom, her weasel-brown hair scattered around buttermilk cheeks. The rest of her follows, draped in a gauzy gown. Her body has blossomed—round arms, ample chest, and hips that could stir up hearts andtrouble alike. I could never have a body like Caroline’s, no matter how many pecans I ate.
Caroline drags her frost-blue eyes down me, eyes that look like they’ve been pressed too hard into her face. “Your hairstyle is barbaric, take it out. Maids should not try to outshine their mistresses.”
Charming as ever. It’d taken me a good part of the morning to plait my locks into a side braid I call “waterfall over rocky ledge.” The banister tempts me to hop on and slide away while I still have a chance.
“Now, make yourself useful and bring up a tray. Something robust, as I will be going for a ride this afternoon.”
“Caroline,” Mrs. Payne interjects, “we have not come to an agreement yet. Please finish sorting through your belongings for castoffs. The Society for the Betterment of Women is sending their wagon tomorrow.”
The tip of Caroline’s nose draws a checkmark in the air. “I’ve already sorted my things.”
“What about the safety?”
“Bicycles are so vulgar. I don’t know why you bought it in the first place.”
“Bicycles are quite current. Of course, nothing will ever replace our horses in speed or beauty, but a ‘freedom machine’ will exercise different parts of you that could use exercising.”
Caroline’s sharp nostrils flatten, and she makes a vulgar noise at the back of her throat. Snatching her dressing gown around her, she evaporates into her bedroom, the fabric swirling like smoke around her ankles.
Mrs. Payne’s movements are jerky as she leads me to a guest bedroom. Her normally controlled expression has come loose, as if her daughter had agitated the water. She closes the door behind us and lets out a controlled breath. “Now, Jo, I do not doubt your ability to handle this job. What concerns me is, well, you and Caroline grew up together here. But you are not equals. You understand that, do you not?”
“Certainly, ma’am,” I say, though the words sting like vinegar on a sunburn. “I hope I have never, er, acted above my station?”
“No, you have not. But now that you are both young ladies, I want to be clear on where we all stand.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I’ve understood that ever since Icouldstand.
A sigh pulls her shoulders down. “Wonderful. You will work Monday through Friday, with payment on Fridays, five dollars each week. I trust that is acceptable?”
It’s much more than Mrs. English paid and includes meals. The Paynes take pride in how well they treat their domestics. Yet, I still prefer my old job, with its promise of a future. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
She pulls from a wardrobe a black uniform of thick cotton, and cream-colored stockings. “As before, leave your uniform in the laundry basket for our washerwoman to collect at the end of the week. Your duties are to maintain Caroline’s quarters, her wardrobe, and her person, and to accompany her when she goes out. You may use one of my old riding habits. Caroline’s might be too big for you.”
Back into the wardrobe she goes, selecting a velvet jacketand matching skirt. A pair of jersey pants with quilted knees hangs next to the other riding clothes.
Noticing my interest, she peers back into the closet. “Is there something there that interests you?”
“I just noticed, er, the riding breeches.” As girls, Caroline and I rode horses astride—she in knee-length dresses, and I in boy’s overalls—but now that we are older, we are expected to use the sidesaddle. At least, fine ladies are.
“Oh, I thought I had given them away.” She brings them out and smooths the fabric under her slender fingers. “I used to show horses on my parents’ farm.”
Old Gin told me the “farm” spanned more than a hundred acres and produced some of the finest horses in the South. Horses seem to be the only thing that cause her eyes to light, though she had to give up riding them after an injury.
“Would you like to use them?”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Things are meant to be used.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I ride better in the cross saddle.”
“As do I. Being packed and twisted into an unnatural side seat is hard on the spine. I swear it’s the reason for my bad back, despite what the doctor says. And I daresay it would make keeping up with Caroline easier.” Her smooth brow furrows, as if mentioning her daughter’s name set off a flurry of thoughts underneath. She digs out a smile. “Of course, they might mistake you for a suffragist.”
