FOR THE AFTERNOONride, Caroline wants to ride solo again, but this time I doubt the cemetery is her destination.
Sweet Potato and I draw up to Six Paces. A familiar horse screams. Not far from the abandoned hansom, Merritt’s muscular frame draws a striking figure, impeccably draped in a blue riding coat, his midsize hat dignifying his sweep of brown-blond curls. I edge my mare away, but it is too late.
When he spots us, a rakish grin bends the perfect line of Merritt’s mustache. “Hullo, Jo!” He trots Ameer up to us.
“I am glad to see you in good spirits, sir.”
“Never been better. Ever since the news broke of my, er, status, I’ve received, so far, four invitations to Mama’s horse race. It’s curious how things work out.”
It doesn’t surprise me. He has always been one of the most eligible bachelors this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. Jane Bentley is a distant memory.
“I rather like being a coquet. It’s a good life you ladies have. I don’t know why those suffragists are so hell-bent on being men.”
Miss Sweetie bristles. “They don’t want to be men, only to be allowed to have a say. God wouldn’t have given us feet if He didn’t want us to walk. By the same token, why give us a brain if He didn’t want us to have thoughts?”
He paces Ameer in front of us, his eyes roving my figure. I’m suddenly all too aware of the form-fitting nature of my riding breeches and turn Sweet Potato to block the view.
He laughs. “I’m merely admiring your... thoughts.”
“The thoughts happen higher up.” A warning bell clangs in my head. The most powerful piece in Chinese chess, the chariot, goes where it wants, felling anything in its path, while I am a lowly disposable soldier. Merritt and I might’ve been friends once, but now that we are older, lines must be drawn. Miss Sweetie would insist on it. “I’m sorry, sir, but your family is my employer. I must be on my way.”
Something wistful passes over his face. “Can we not be friends?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” My mare ferries us off, and this time, I do not look back.
Thirty-Two
Dear Miss Sweetie,
An admirer caught me staring at him. Of course, I quickly looked away, but I am certain he now thinks I’m a hussy. I want to die of shame.
Mortified,
Fannie Smith
(please don’t use my real name)
Dear Mortified,
An anxious mind makes lions of tumbleweeds. Live in the present, not in the future.
Yours truly,
Miss Sweetie
—
The printer whirs and thrums next to my ear. I am back to listening in on the Bells, if only to assure myself they are still in business.
Old Gin is spending tonight again at the Paynes’. I finish tying a knot from the spools of cord Mr. Buxbaum sent through Noemi.
The printer stops and the soothing tones of Mrs. Bell’s voice tumble down, too distant to hear. Nathan’s voice follows. “Let him try to shut us down.” His voice grips the words. “The more he blows, the weaker his son looks.”
“Not if theConstitutionturns this into a witch hunt for Miss Sweetie.Icould claim responsibility. It would make sense that the publisher’s wife is Miss Sweetie. Probably no one would care after that.”
“Exactly. People would stop caring.” Something bumps the desk, maybe Nathan’s fist. “As much as people want to know who she is, her anonymity is part of her allure. She could be anyone, a sister, a friend, a neighbor. It’s what makes her relatable.”
“What will your father say?”
