“Good morning, Mrs. Bell. I’m sorry to oversleep. Has he had his medicine?”
“Yes, this morning, and then Nathan helped him use theouthouse.” She wipes her hands on an apron embroidered with fruits, her premature white hair neatly whorled into a bun at her neck. “You were sleeping so soundly. We didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Thank you. Is Nathan—”
“He’s delivering one of our jobs.”
My eyes fall to today’s copy of theFocuson the kitchen table. Nathan titled the Miss Sweetie column about the streetcars “I Know How to Sit.” He must have been up all night running the press.
“I must go. The Paynes will be wondering where Old Gin is.” Troubles are like weeds, and the longer you avoid them, the bigger they grow. Might as well give this one a good yank now before it can do more damage.
—
THE SPRINGDRAGONroars, its breath reeking of cut grass and pollen. I trudge down the gilded corridor of Peachtree, wearing Old Gin’s cap and carrying my borrowed bonnet in a gunnysack. I never thought of Mrs. Payne’s hat as mine, and that makes it easier to surrender. Maybe that is how Mrs. Payne felt about me—only borrowed as needed. With rising costs, it is easy to give me back.
My outrage at the woman has mellowed into something duller but somehow more painful, a gnaw versus a bite. Hammer Foot taught us that standing in another’s shoes is good for our own postures, but today, I can barely manage to stand in my own.
Old Gin’s cap sags over my ears. They will have to bring ina replacement, though they will never get anyone as capable as Old Gin. A good groom is hard to find, too.
The biscuit Mrs. Bell insisted I eat has cooled in my stomach by the time I turn into the Paynes’ driveway. There is a haunting stillness to the property, the same kind that creeps over an old battleground, never quite achieving peace. Since I am no longer employed here, I knock on the front door instead of rounding the courtyard to the kitchen.
Etta Rae answers, her reedlike figure more stooped than yesterday. Her sigh seems to sink through to the floor. She knew, too. Has she pitied me all these years? What other burdens has she carried?
“How long have you known?” I try to keep the bitterness from my voice.
“I carried you to Old Gin’s shanty. You were just a peanut.”
“You?” I croak. A younger version of the housekeeper moving with purpose toward the row of ramshackle dwellings fills my mind. Was she trying to protect her mistress, or me? Or simply the fragile state of the house she kept tidy for so long?
“It was for the best. Mr. Payne ordered your mama to send you to an orphanage.”
“So he knew about”—the shameful words stick—“the affair.”
“He knew about the dalliance in the cemetery.”
“The cemetery?”
“The papers got wind of it, but Mr. Payne made sure the story didn’t mention your mama.”
All my blood seems to pool in my stomach. “My father was the Rabid-Eyes Rapist?”
“That’s what they called him. But your father was not a rapist. They were foolish, but they were in love.”
Poor Shang. He was never fingered for the supposed crime, but another man paid for it with his life. The injustice of it all makes me want to lay waste to the whole of Peachtree Street with one fiery breath. “Does Mr. Payne know I’m her daughter?”
“No. Your mama told him the baby was a boy.”
She is clever, that much is undeniable. Something tells me he might have figured it out anyway. Yet, the man had always been decent to me. Maybe that was a chain he chose to wear.
Noemi appears beside Etta Rae. A fresh sprig of bluebells adorns her apron, and she’s holding a jar of pickles. “Thought it was you.”
It is hard to look into her concerned eyes and keep my composure. She drapes an arm around my shoulders and gives me a sideways squeeze. “Robby told me what happened, and Etta Rae filled in a few other details.” Her gaze floats to Old Gin’s cap. “Why are you here?”
“I need to talk to her. Old Gin’s not well. He won’t be coming for a while.”
Etta Rae clucks her tongue. “She’s in the stable.”
Noemi pulls me inside. “I’ll walk you there.”
