“How old are you?”
I pinch the sides of my maid’s dress, my gaze fixed on his gullet. “Seventeen, sir.”
His scrutiny grows heavier, and my breath shorter. I try not to stare at the flesh curtain of his throat. He knows I know something about Miss Sweetie. He can sense it. Maybe the intuition that makes him Atlanta’s paper king has heard the panicked flapping of truth, ready to spring from my mouth like a quail from the bush.
“Old Gin tells me he has educated you. And that you like reading newspapers.”
I swallow hard. “I—I—”
“Speak up, girl.”
I force myself to breathe. “I like to be informed. P. T. Barnum said, ‘He who is without a newspaper is cut off from his species.’”
“P. T. might’ve been a politician, but he was a circus man at heart. I am fond of newspapers myself, but lately, I have found they are full of drivel. Sensationalist slush more likely to raise blood pressure than understanding.”
“Yes, sir,” I squeak, hoping he will excuse me now.
“Tell me, are you familiar with this Dear Miss Sweetie column?” His voice dribbles with disgust at the name.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what do you think of her column ‘The Singular Question’?”
“My opinion is of no consequence.”
“Nonsense. You are a young woman who reads newspapers, the quarry for whom this woman has sprung her traps. Do you feel this article emboldens women to reject marriage in pursuit of their own interests?”
Here it is. My chance to confess. If I take responsibility, perhaps he’ll overlook his grievance with theFocusand things can return to the way they were before Miss Sweetie arrived on the page.
My toes curl in my boots, trying to keep myself planted, but the world has begun to spin too fast. Visions of our local jail, with its stone walls that constantly echo the wails from within, grip me with terror. “I think...”
He stretches his chin up, his eyes zeroed in on mine.
“I have known your daughter for a long time. She has always been spirited. One day, she shall make a fine wife.”
The man’s face lights up in a way that should assure Caroline that, even if the rumors of her being illegitimate are true, her father will never deny her.
“Yes, she is my greatest treasure.”
“As daughters should be. However, if she finds that no man is worthy of her, would you force her to marry someone anyway?”
“Of course not. But she should be encouraged to keep looking.”
“As Old Gin likes to say, not all horses are meant to race, but all horses are meant to run. If Caroline is happy, are you not happy for her? As you know, she cares little for the diversions of other women. She’s bright and well-versed in the business of Payne Mills. If she were allowed to do something productive and meaningful there, her temper might be much improved.”
I clamp my mouth shut. But my words have already galloped off, and there is no calling them back. I wait for the man to reprimand me for insulting his daughter, but his eyes havelost focus and he is rubbing his shoulder. Perhaps he is imagining his daughter accompanying him to work.
“Miss Sweetie’s words are not meant solely for young women like Caroline, but their fathers, mothers, brothers, and anyone who desires for them a happy, useful life.”
He makes a guttural noise, probably the prelude to a spouting-off, but then his attention catches on something behind me. “Princess, you’re up early.”
Caroline steps out from behind the traitorous philodendron, likely placed there to catch eavesdroppers like us. “Good morning, Papa,” she says, letting him kiss her cheek.
She casts me a look that is half confusion and half surprise, sugared by wonder. Then she refocuses on her father, clearing his throat with loud rumbles. Maybe he is wondering how much Caroline overheard. Maybesheis puzzling out what she missed. I scoop up the tray.
I pick my way down the stairs, hoping I have cleared the path of a few boulders.
—
