The Downstairs Girl

by Stacey Lee

  Mrs. English clears her throat. “Actually, she is busy.” Her eyes flit to a familiar folder beside the cash register. “We’re taking inventory today.”

  My jaw grinds. That tedious chore is typically done on Friday, but she’s trying to get her money’s worth out of my last day. Lizzie never gets the numbers to come out right.

  “But,” she adds, “I would be happy to assist you myself.”

  Mrs. Bell’s head pulls back a notch as she addresses Mrs. English. “You can do the Chinese knots, too?”

  “Er, no.” The proprietress’s mouth draws in like a purse string being cinched. She had thought my knots looked bizarre, but didn’t complain when the solicitor’s wife paid her handsomely for the work.

  “I would be happy to do it,” I cautiously pipe up. If Mrs. Bell has come to arrest me, where is the constable? The shock of my dismissal may have dulled my perception, but the woman’s behavior doesn’t strike me as someone who has smoked out a rat. In addition, the prospect of sticking Lizzie with the inventory makes me positively giddy.

  “But the embellishment will take more than a day,” Mrs. English says with a meaningful jab of her eyebrow.

  Mrs. Bell presses her palms together. “Oh, take your time. I don’t need it for a couple of weeks.”

  “I can do it in a day.” I steer a brave smile toward the proprietress, hoping to unearth a pebble of pity in her stony heart.

  Mrs. English fans herself. Waves of gardenia crash over us. “If you pay in cash, I would reconsider.”

  “Ah. I might have something even better than cash.” Mrs. Bell fingers the edge of her hat. Her arthritic joints stretch the fabric of her well-worn gloves, and the pads of her fingers are starting to show through. Money is tight in that family. I hold my breath, caught between wondering what she could offer and worrying that there is more to this visit than meets the eye. “You see, my husband runs the Focus. In exchange for the work, we could give you a month of advertisement, the equivalent of three dollars. I am told the piece cost a dollar fifty. You’d be getting twice the value.”

  “Front page,” Mrs. English briskly counters. “Plus assurances that you will not run competing advertisements.” When Mrs. Bell doesn’t answer, the proprietress pours on some charm. “Each piece that leaves our hands is a unique work of art. But don’t go to New York, or the Metropolitan Museum might pinch it from you.” She bats her fan at Mrs. Bell. No one butters a biscuit like Mrs. English.

  Mrs. Bell’s genteel smile doesn’t falter, but her finger spools a loose thread on her sleeve. “A one-week exclusive is all I can offer.”

  The two women continue to haggle, though Mrs. Bell’s eyes keep wandering to me. I untwist my arms and try not to look like I’m hiding something. Unlike the proprietress, whose speech modulates like a stage actress’s, the publisher’s wife’s voice is as steady as an oak table. It comforts me, even as I worry about the coincidence of her visit. I’m reminded of all those songs she sang to calm Nathan, songs that also soothed me, two years younger than him. Her tales of growing up on her parents’ sheep farm enthralled me in ways I never expected sheep could do. And here she stands before me, unaware—at least I hope—of how much she means to me.

  Two young women enter the shop dressed in the latest pastels with touches of lace at the collars. Miss Melissa Lee Saltworth and Miss Linette Culpepper, whom I call Salt and Pepper, though never aloud, are the daughters of “merchant aristocrats.” Unlike the older cities of Savannah and Charleston, in Atlanta you don’t need a family name to boost your social standing. You can climb the ladder by sheer business muscle. Of course, muscles, business or otherwise, never made a difference to how high Chinese could climb.

  “Good morning, Miss Saltworth, Miss Culpepper. How are you today?” Mrs. English calls over her shoulder into the back room, “Lizzie?”

  Lizzie appears. “Why, good morning, Mrs. Bell. How is Nathan? I haven’t seen him delivering the papers at Father’s store lately.”

  “He is well, Lizzie. The reporting keeps him very busy these days. I shall tell him you send your regards.”

  Lizzie lingers at the counter, a dreamy smile upon her fair face. Mrs. English clears her throat loudly and cocks her head meaningfully toward Salt and Pepper. Lizzie takes languid steps toward the ladies as if the floor were full of horse patties. The building could be burning down and she would still take her time. Salt points to the top shelf, where we display the finest offerings, and with a wooden pole, Lizzie retrieves a straw hat in mauve with a cloud of tulle.

  I bite my tongue in frustration. Mauve would definitely clash with Salt’s peachy skin.

  “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.

  * * *

  —

  I SPEND MY last 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 go
od 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 to be the 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.

  “I—I couldn’t,” I stammer. I occasionally receive tips, but it doesn’t feel right to take money from her when I owe her so much. Her smile wobbles, and I realize I am acting suspicious. I accept the coin. “Thank you.”

  She says in a low voice, “May God always keep you in His palm.”

  With that, I am back to worrying that she does know about Old Gin and me. Has she just given her implicit approval that the situation may continue? But why say something so final unless she thought we would not meet again? Is she planning to reveal us after all?

  Her face betrays nothing. She is back to admiring her hat in the reflection.

  Three

  Mrs. English drops two Lady Libertys into my palm and snaps the cash register shut.

  My tired fingers curl around the coins on their own. “Thank you. Ma’am, won’t you reconsider?” I cringe at the desperation in my voice, but I’d hoped millinery held great promise for me. Making hats, you could make statements without saying anything at all. Plus, a hatter can pay her own way without marrying. A good Chinese wife is expected to cook, bear sons, and be willing to “eat bitterness.” I have enough of that on my plate right now.

  “I’ll work twice as hard and try not to have so many opinions and—”

  “Jo, you simply do not make economic sense.” With a handkerchief, she pats the moisture from her neck, then swabs the space between us, as if to rub away the sight of me. I’m reminded of the dreaded G-word that accompanied my last dismissal. But instead of go, Mrs. English says, “Good luck.”

  Disappointment weighs heavy as a box of blocks on my heart. My chin quivers, but I hide it under the brim of my hat as I hurry toward Union Station, a brick hangar with a fan-shaped arch. The sooner I get home, the sooner I can eavesdrop on Mrs. Bell to ascertain whether her visit was more than a coincidence.

  The Western & Atlantic Railroad was the first of several cuts in the pie that divided Atlanta into six wards. We live near the center of the pie. A uniformed man herds a noisy mass of carriages, carts, and pedestrians through the crossing. I hurry to make it through before it closes. A woman holds a handkerchief to her nose and shrinks away from me, and I know it is not the soot she is worried about.

  My feet tingle as I cross the tracks and I cast my eyes toward Yankee country. North of the Mason-Dixon Line, even the dogs attend school for manners, and in New York, women are so fashionable, they change hats several times a day. I could’ve opened my own millinery in Madison Square, had I the right training.

  Saucebox, I snort. I barely utter one word to every ten Lizzie speaks, and that’s the chattiest I get all day. Chinese people can’t afford to be sauceboxes, especially Chinese people who are trying to live undetected.

  “Oh!” Past the tracks, I nearly collide with an old man perched upon a crate. He jerks, and a newspaper hat slides off his head. “I am sorry.” I pick up the newspaper hat, though he makes no move to take it from me.

  “Pa, you a’right?” A young woman with sun-beaten skin snatches the newspaper hat.

  The man’s yellowing eyes adhere to me like spots of glue. It occurs to me the two might not have a home, given their open rucksacks and dirty fingernails. The woman bends the hat back into shape and sets it gently onto her father’s head.

  Suddenly, I see Old Gin and myself in these two, reduced to begging, with not even proper hats to shade us. Please let it not come to that, I implore both the Christian God and our ancestors. The sky looks coolly down on me. Unlike yesterday, there is no ombré in its sunset or tulle in its clouds. A thin puff of vapor resembles a stuck-out tongue. I’m gripped by the urge to run headlong into the sky and wipe that smug off its face.

  Like a common pickpocket, I slip along alleys, keeping myself compact and unnoticeable. A copse of trees lies fifty yards beyond One Luckie Street, the home of the Bells’ print shop and attached house. Checking to see that no one is looking, I hasten to the center of the copse, where the heavy skirts of a Virginia cedar conceal a trapdoor. The door does not creak when I open it—we always keep it well-oiled. A rough staircase leads to one of the two tunnels looping to the basement under One Luckie Street.

  Old Gin is perched, birdlike, at our spool table, home earlier than usual. Eavesdropping will have to wait. The Bells are probably in their kitchen eating dinner anyway, not in the print shop where I can overhear them.

  “Evening, Father.” Lately, Old Gin’s garments have begun to hang on him, dark trousers and a shirt whose original color is hard to recall. With even strokes, he writes Chinese characters for me to copy. We use English with the uncles gone, but he wants me to keep up the mother tongue for the husband he hopes to find me one day.

  His threadbare eyebrows hitch a fraction. Even at the barely audible volume that we use underground, he can tell I’m cross. It heaps insult onto injury that I can’t rail about my unjust situation at the volume it deserves. I scrub my hands and face in our wash bucket with more vigor than necessary, soaking my sleeves. Then I seat myself on the upside-down flowerpot I use as a chair, my knees bumping the table.

  Old Gin has arranged on my plate two slices of ham, a wedge of cheese, one sesame seed roll, and a dish of peach preserves. Robby’s wife, Noemi, the Paynes’ cook, always gives Old Gin something extra to take home. We eat simply, avoiding foods that might release suspicious smells into the environment.

  “It is better to save anger for tomorrow, hm?”

  I sigh. Old Gin knows just how to press the valves that release steam. “Mrs. English dismissed me.”

  While I pour out my story, he sips hot barley water, peppering my pauses with the musical hms that both loosen my speech and rob it of indignation. The hm appears so frequently that I forget it’s there. I think it comes from spending so much time with horses. “Hm?” is his way of showing them that he values their opinions.

  “Guess it’s the cotton mills for me,” I mutter. The mills will hire anyone willing to work long hours spinning or spooling. Of course, it might cost a finger, or worse, one’s life, which is why they’re called “widow makers.”

  Old Gin’s horrified gasp sets off another bout of coughing, and I immediately regret my words. It’s as if someone had gr
abbed ahold of his thin shoulders and is shaking him for loose change. It must be the damp. His old corner gets musty when it rains too much.

  I travel the two steps to our “kitchen” to fetch the kettle off our coal-burning stove. The stove shares a chimney with the fireplace in the print shop overhead, which means we only use it when that fireplace is lit. Lucky for us, the printer’s wife prefers a warm room for her arthritis.

  I pour more barley tea. Old Gin nods his thanks, his acorn-shaped face red and grimacing. The spasms have mussed his neatly kept gray hair.

  “Robby says some of the new drafts are quite effective for the cough.”

  “Best draft is time.” His gaze strays to an old pair of work boots neatly lined against the wall, where we hide our money. We have always been frugal, but lately Old Gin has become as tightfisted as a man gearing up to throw a punch. Last month, I lost a quarter out of a hole in my pocket, and he didn’t sleep well for a week. “We must save for your future.”

  “Our future.” Old Gin is not my real father, and yet I cannot imagine a world without him by my side. Whoever my parents were, they must have known he was the most reliable of the Chinese bachelors in Atlanta when they left me with him. A former schoolteacher in China, Old Gin taught me everything he knew. The handful of “uncles” whom Old Gin permitted to live with us—fieldworkers, ditchdiggers, and rock drillers—took turns watching my infant self, but it was Old Gin who paid Robby’s mother to nurse me. It was Old Gin who stayed when the others moved on.

  He sips his tea, chest calm once again. “Yes, our future.” He inhales a slow breath and sets down the tea. “How would you like to work for the Paynes again?”

  I snort too loudly, but his face doesn’t alter its expression. “You are serious?”

  Old Gin nods. “You could see Noemi every day.”

  “That would be nice, but—”

  “And you will be able to ride Sweet Potato.”

  Our mare’s coal-black face appears in my mind. Old Gin had begged Mr. Payne not to let the head groom, Jed Crycks, shoot her as a foal after a lame leg caused her mother to reject her. Mr. Payne agreed, giving her to Old Gin and even letting him board her at the estate as long as Old Gin paid her keep.