In the library, she scratches out correspondence, her face scrunched in a grimace. I untangle a basket of embroidery thread and work out which lion Miss Sweetie will choose to battle next. So many lions prowl right here in this room. With debutante season starting, this week promises an ever-spinning carousel of social engagements for Caroline, not just whist-playing, but also pressing ferns into scrapbooks and lawn bowling. It all sounds like good fun, but Caroline never seems to enjoy herself with other people, though unlike with the servants, she must put on a good face. Either that or she doesn’t care for the conversations, which inevitably turn toward the business of securing a husband.
I can’t blame her. The husband business strikes Miss Sweetie as uncannily similar to the scramble that ensues during an Easter egg hunt, where the egg’s only hope is to sit as prettily as possible so that it will be picked up before it spoils. Like Caroline, I am in no hurry to be found, though plans are under way.
Dare Miss Sweetie stick her head in the marriage lion’s mouth? It is a subject that most women could relate to, especially right now. I bet it would bring in more than fifty subscriptions.
Caroline’s wingback chair groans as she fidgets, and if paper could talk, it would probably be whimpering, too, underthe weight of her pen. Caroline moves through life with a tight grip on the world, as if she were afraid of being shaken off. Or maybe she’s determined to leave a mark on the world, the same reason she grinds her shoes into the earth or scorches the air with her caustic remarks.
“This paper is defective! How did this pass quality control?”
“What do you mean, miss?”
“The fibers caught a speck of something, maybe sand, or an insect.” She grimaces. “The nib catches along the watermark.”
“What’s a watermark?”
I expect her to ignore me, but instead, she holds the paper at eye level, parallel to the floor. “See there?”
I squint at her too-flowery penmanship. At the point that her pen left off, the Payne Mills insignia,PM, is pressed into the page, only visible if looked at from an angle.
“I never noticed it before.”
“Father puts it on all the premier-line stationery, though if I’d paid an ounce of gold for a half ream of this, I would want my money back. It’s that Mr. Foggs. He works the girls too long, till they can’t see straight.”
“Surely your father can do something about that?”
“Father holds Mr. Foggs in too high estimation.” She crumples her paper and lobs it into the fireplace. “Mind you, ask the mail carrier when he calls where my package is. It should’ve arrived weeks ago. And snuff the fire. The smoke is giving me a headache. No, no, don’t open the window. Are you stupid? I shall catch a draft!”
I don’t close the window right away, but let the cool air soothe my vexation. Ever since my comment about the bicyclecosting as much as a horse, she has begun to rub off the edges of our agreement and my patience.
Mrs. Payne’s boots make ladylike taps as she enters the library, elegantly draped in cream-colored wool, and clutching a letter. Noemi follows her, bearing a tray that holds a simple tea service and a small brown package. Still reading her letter, Mrs. Payne lowers herself into an armchair. “How about that? The Atlanta Suffragists put in a bid to sponsor a horse.”
“Well, now, did I ever forecast that,” Caroline practically sings.
Noemi hands Caroline the package. The sleeves of Caroline’s black silk robe flap like the wings on a bird of prey as she tears it open. “At last!” She plucks out a shiny tin of Beetham’s Glycerine and Cucumber cream.
Ignoring her, Mrs. Payne reads, “‘Though our offer be meager, we hope you accept, knowing that our sponsorship would be of symbolic importance to all women. We can run the race as well as any man. We only need the opportunity.’” She turns her attention to Noemi, pouring tea. “A hundred dollars puts them in the running. And you know those suffragists will protest if I don’t let them put their name on a horse. What to do?”
“Tell them they were outbid.” Caroline applies the cream with vigorous strokes to her cheeks and hands.
“They’ll figure it out. People talk.”
Noemi offers Mrs. Payne a plate of gingersnaps. “Seems to me, you can never go wrong with honesty, ma’am.”
Caroline’s shiny face splits open. “What has possessed you to think we care for your opinion?”
Noemi drops her head, and Mrs. Payne’s face becomes thoughtful. “We have always valued our domestics’ opinions.”
Caroline’s gaze slings to me, as if I were the source of the trouble.
“Honestyisthe best policy, especially with all eyes on this race,” Mrs. Payne continues. “Though, if I give the suffragists a horse, the Atlanta Belles will be in a lather. Fans will go up.” With her letter, she mimes drawing open a fan and hiding her face behind it, as the ladies do when they gossip.
Proceeds from the race go to the Society for the Betterment of Women, which supports orphans and widows. But the Atlanta Belles would rather parade about in their petticoats than associate with the loudmouthed suffragists, even though they are working toward the same cause. It is perfectly acceptable to treat women as charity, but perish the thought they should be enabled to help themselves. Another lion growls in Miss Sweetie’s face.
I snort a little too loudly, and I fumble the spool I am winding.
Caroline cups her hand to her ear and leans dramatically toward the entryway. “What’s that? I believe another unsolicited opinion is knocking down the door.”
Mrs. Payne purses her lips into a quick smile. “Jo?”
