“A two-week exclusive, then. I hope there will be nothing more,” Mrs. Bell adds with more force.
Mrs. English nods at me, a triumphant gleam in her eye. Mrs. Bell’s gaze also travels to me. I summon some poise, not wanting her to think me a heathen.
“Did you have a particular event in mind, or is it for everyday wear?” I ask, my tongue strangely thick.
“I would like something unique, a conversation starter. It’s for the horse race.”
Salt, who’s been admiring the straw hat in Lizzie’s hands, exclaims, “I’m fizzed about that race. We came as early as we could.”
Pepper twirls her parasol with such energy, she might have been divining the ground for water. “I hope your Mr. Q invites you soon.”
Salt blushes like a sunset against the white-blond clouds of her locks. According to Pepper, Mr. Quackenbach, the son of a financier who lost his fortune backing Confederate dollars, is “smitten” with Miss Saltworth and seeking her hand. The Quackenbach name still holds currency even if his bank account does not, and Mr. Q has the sort of dreamy face that could ripple even the sourest buttermilk. If I were as wealthy as Salt, the only thing I would give a gold digger like Mr. Q is my foot. Anyway, according to Old Gin, the real looker is his horse, a rare piebald with a white coat offset by a black mane and tail.
Mrs. Bell nods at the newcomers. “Actually, ladies are encouraged to ask the men. We printed the posters ourselves.”
“Yes, but no respectable woman would actually do that,” says Mrs. English.
Mrs. Bell looses a smile. “The proceeds benefit the Society for the Betterment of Women. Perhaps it is appropriate in this instance.”
Salt pushes the mauve hat back at Lizzie, to my relief. “But it’s so bold. What if the gentleman refused? I should be humiliated.”
“He won’t.” Pepper tucks a black ringlet back under her crushed-velvet capote, a hat I made just last week.
“It sounds wonderful,” Lizzie breathes, squeezing the mauve hat so hard, I think I hear it whimper. I expect Mrs. English to reprimand her, but instead, she’s staring at the cash register, a smile fanned across her face. Perhaps she’s remembering all the orders the horse race is generating. A tiny bubble of hope rises in my chest, pesky thing.
—
ISPEND MYlast hours as a milliner in the back room, creating Mrs. Bell’s embellishment. Lucky Yip, one of the two “uncles” I remember, taught me the folk art of knot-tying one summer when a cloudbuster made it difficult to leave the basement. All you need is silk cord and your fingers.
Mrs. Bell’s plain felt sports a duck brim in front and a lifted back for her hair. To wake up its dull planes, I work cord into rose and pansy knots. I add green ribbons to suggest foliage.
The first time I was sacked, I’d been polishing banisters at the prestigious Payne Estate, where Old Gin had worked ever since stepping foot on American soil twenty years earlier. I had grown up on the estate, working first as a stable girl and sometimes playmate to the Paynes’ spoiled daughter, until I was promoted to a housemaid. The linseed oil was still slick on my fingers when Mrs. Payne snatched my rag and pointed it toward the door: “Go.”
At least Mrs. English had given a reason for dismissing me. Not a good one, but it beat no reason at all.
Lizzie drifts in from the front. Her breathy sighs pelt me from behind. The butterfly I’m knotting slips, and I throw her a wet look. “May I help you?”
“It shoulda been me. I don’t love this job like you do.”
I deflate, wishing she would make it easier for me to dislike her. “Once you get the hang of things, you’ll like it better.”
She glances toward the shop, which, judging by the chatter, is full of patrons. Instead of leaving, she drops into a chair. “I bet that horse race will be fine as fox fur.” She intertwines her fingers and her shoulders lift.
I cannot help musing that the world would be a happier place if we could all do the things we want to do. I like making hats. I do not want to be a maid to a spoiled Southern miss. Lizzie does not want to make hats. She wants tobethe spoiled Southern miss. As for Mrs. English, her life would be easier if she just kept me and got rid of Lizzie. At least I would make her profitable.
A few more twists complete my butterfly, its wings spread as if to fly. I am just putting the finishing stitches in my arrangement when Mrs. Bell returns.
“It’s lovelier than I could’ve imagined.” Mrs. Bell turns her head from side to side in front of our mirror. “It’s a miracle you finished it so fast!”
I resist checking for Mrs. English’s reaction as she completes a row of sums next to me.
“Thank you, ma’am. You should always wear a little color, because—”
Mrs. English clears her throat loudly.
I bite my tongue, realizing this is the kind of opining that cooked my goose. “Because, well, we all should.”
Mrs. Bell smiles and holds out a nickel to me.
