Etta Rae claps me on the shoulder with one of her rug-beater arms. “Morning, Jo.”
Noemi straightens. “Good, you’re here. There’s trouble afoot, and it ain’t wearing shoes.”
“Is it walking toward us?” Perhaps Caroline has confronted Mrs. Payne with the rumor of her illegitimacy. If so, Mrs. Payne will need to stamp out that fire before the good Payne name goes up in smoke.
“Let’s hope not. It all started with Miss Sweetie’s article ‘The Singular Question.’ You seen it?”
“Yes, I’ve read it.”
Etta Rae folds the newspaper and sets it in the letter basket she usually delivers to Mrs. Payne every morning. “I never saw the good in catching a husband, myself. Why would I want another job waiting for me back at home?” She ties on a bonnet. “The chickens are waiting for me. Mind you walk soft today and don’t bother Mrs. Payne. She’s in one of her melancholies.” Out the door she goes.
Noemi takes up a narrow knife and, with smooth strokes of her wrist, slices the meat from a freshly severed lamb shank. “They in a fit over Merritt’s broken engagement. Mr. Payne didn’t go to the mills today, and seems no one here can talk without slamming a door. According to Solomon, Mr. Payne paid theFocusa visit yesterday and demanded they expose Miss Sweetie.”
I sag against the counter, not trusting my legs to support me. “What did they say?”
“They showed him the door. Then today, this shows up.” She pulls out the newspaper she’d been reading to Etta Rae. It’s theConstitution, with its distinctively wide pages and dense columns. The leftmost article grabs my attention.
MISS SWEETIE, AGONY AUNT OR ANT-AGONIST?
Atlanta has been beside herself to discover the identity of the rabble-rouser, whose biweekly column in the Focus has aroused many a heated discussion in our peaceful city. While a few welcome the controversies, many wonder if the Miss Sweetie column is a ploy for attention by a newspaper many consider “too loosely wrapped.”
My thumbnail dents the page. Whoever wrote this clearly has not seen my letters of admiration. Where false light falls, a monster grows.
Perhaps those who know Miss Sweetie’s identity would do our fair city a favor to expose her for the troublemaker she is.
“You okay? You look a little pale.”
I refold the paper and set it back into the basket. “I’m fine.” Of all the weeks to stop eavesdropping.
Merritt’s breakup must really have put a stone on Mr. Payne’s tracks. If he wants to shut down theFocus, all he need do is cut off its paper supply. By orchestrating a witch hunt, he exacts a little humiliation to boot. He can’t know the kind of public scorn they would face if the truth were known: that a Chinese girl had duped everyone. But of course that won’thappen. It can’t. Only Lizzie Crump knows the truth, and while she might be slow in the foot and frivolous, she is not cruel.
I fetch a mug. Miss Sweetie will not be intimidated, not after she’s come this far. TheFocushas nearly reached two thousand subscriptions, and once the sponsors see the newspaper’s success, surely alternative paper sources could be found.
“You waiting for me to put change in there?” Noemi eyes the empty mug I’m strangling.
I set down the mug and pour the coffee, hoping she does not see the way my hands shake. “That Miss Sweetie’s sure stirring up trouble.” For herself and everyone around her.
Noemi scrapes away the silver skin encasing her meat. “I like her. In fact, I’m fixing to write her my own letter about those suffragists. We got the same working parts as those other women, but their hate’s more important than getting the vote.” With a flick of her wrist, Noemi chucks the tough skin into the slop bucket. “Course, that Miss Sweetie is white and probably wouldn’t answer me.”
“Even if she doesn’t write back, I bet she’d agree with you.”
“You think?”
“Yes, I do.”
—
ICARRY MYtray up to Caroline’s room, noticing the door to Mrs. Payne’s study is closed. She rarely closes the door. It is the melancholy at work, no doubt.
Caroline’s vanity is back in its corner, but she’s staring outher window when I enter her chambers. I wonder if trouble looks less scary when glimpsed through a pane of glass. “Are you well, miss?”
She doesn’t answer, but her gaze drops from the window to the floor. There’s a restlessness to the way she moves, and the dimple in her cheek seems to have changed overnight into a permanent pinch.
After setting her tray before her, I straighten her bedsheets, having my own frown lines to mind.
“How does it feel to be a nobody?” She taps at the shell of her soft-boiled egg.
My temper flares. “How does it feel to be an overstuffed porcupine?” The words fall before I can catch them. It occurs to me that with Mr. Q out of the picture, I no longer have leverage to demand reasonable treatment. The good news is, I’m pretty sure our agreement made no difference in how Caroline treated me, anyway.
