The Downstairs Girl

by Stacey Lee

  “No, but I bet you do.”

  “Almost done adding my bit.” Noemi writes on her paper.

  “Nice work,” I tell Mary, who has sewn an impressive image of the horse’s hindquarters on her fabric, and not a single grinning stitch. The other tables have barely started on their squares.

  “Thank you.”

  “Course they got to give us the horse’s backside,” says Rose. “And why do you think that is?”

  “Because that’s the half that gets things done, that’s why.” Noemi sets down her pencil. “We been standing in the back for a long time, but we can change that when we get the vote.”

  “They don’t care about us. Just using us as always.” Rose tugs the fabric away from Mary. “Let me add some stitches so I can say I did something.”

  Noemi hands me the list. “What do you think?”

  Lynching.

  Selling some folks eggs with cracks in them even though their money’s the same color as everybody else’s!

  Not letting us follow the path we wish to tread.

  “I think I know who said what,” I say, looking at each face in turn. Rose is watching Mrs. Bullis and Mrs. Bread Loaf draw closer as they pass out marigold sashes from a cardboard box. Without even looking at us, they sweep by.

  Noemi quickly gets to her feet. “Excuse me, Mrs. Bullis, ma’am.”

  “Yes?”

  “I was just wondering if we could get some of those sashes, too?”

  “These are for wearing at the race.” Mrs. Bullis sweeps her restless fingers down the length of a sash, petting it as if it were a cat’s tail.

  “Yes, ma’am. We’ll be there.”

  The petting stops, and Mrs. Bullis cuts her gaze to Mrs. Bread Loaf, who is squeezing the box to her chest as if it might try to run away.

  “Mary works on Saturdays,” says Mrs. Bullis.

  Mary, who is wrapping an embroidery thread around her finger, glances around her and then back down at her lap. “I was hoping you’d let me have a few hours off, ma’am.” Mary’s voice is whisper soft. “To support the cause, and all.”

  “I’m sorry, Mary. The cause doesn’t need you.”

  Rose pauses her work on something resembling a potato and rolls the needle between her fingers. I bet she’s thinking about which end of the top hat she’d like to stick it to.

  Noemi seems to sway on her feet, an oak enduring a wind. “But you just said in your speech that the woman’s hour is at hand. Ain’t we, that is, aren’t we women? And we’re about finished with our part. Even wrote some Custom-aries that need releasing, right here.” She holds out her list.

  Mrs. Bullis’s eyes rake over the list and then she blows out a breath that reminds me of Frederick. “These are not women’s concerns, they are colored concerns.”

  “They’re not colored concerns, they’re human concerns, and women make up half the humans. If we all work together, we can make some real change. Laws that fix the bad smell. Laws that give us rights to keep our property, instead of letting good-for-nothing husbands gamble it away. You want that, don’t you?”

  Mrs. Bullis’s teapot face blows steam. “How dare you! Mary?”

  Mary jerks, eyes wide.

  Noemi knots her shawl tight over her solid arms and keeps her gaze fixed on Mrs. Bullis’s chin. “Mary didn’t tell about your situation, Mrs. Bullis. It’s well-known, is all.”

  Mrs. Bullis reels up her nose as high as it will go, eyes searching out a good place to cast her hook. “You’ll have to wait your turn, all of you”—she glares at me—“just like we did. Your men got the vote, but most sold it for drinking money. Now it’s our turn.”

  The room has gone silent. You would probably hear the drop of a needle if one were to fall. On the other side of the room, Lizzie’s face is stretched long, though Mrs. English is staring through the ceiling, maybe wondering why she is here and not home soaking her feet.

  Noemi rocks from side to side, but when she speaks, her voice is even as steel tracks. “If any did sell their votes, they likely did so only because they thought it made no difference how they cast them. A greased pig isn’t worth much if you can’t hold on to it long enough to make bacon.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and you’re verging on impertinence.”

  Noemi takes her time filling her lungs, her lowered gaze taking in all the eyes cooling on her. “Ma’am, what I’m saying is, we got plenty of good women waiting to cast our ballots and make things right again for everyone. And we’re going to keep pulling for ballots, whether you let us or not.”

  A collective gasp sweeps through the room, and then whispers start up.

  Mrs. Bullis’s marigold sash whips through the air, a jag of lightning. “I think it’s time you leave. You, too, Mary. Go back home and work on the curtains like I asked.”

  Mary’s head is bowed, exposing the bumps of her neck bones.

  “Mary, do you hear me?”

  Rose bites off thread with her teeth and mutters, “She hears you.” She squints hard enough to tangle her lashes, and it’s as if she were trying to keep her vexation from seeping out her eyes.

  Mary unbends her neck, and I’m reminded of a bird unfolding. She gathers her gray skirts and rises. “I don’t want to do the curtains right now, Mrs. Bullis.”

  “Don’t want to do . . . ,” Mrs. Bullis echoes, looking wildly around her as if she could be the butt of a joke. “Well, then you . . .” Her eyes fall upon the embroidered half-horse, and she sucks in her sentence. A good seamstress can be hard to find. Especially with so many vultures waiting to swoop in. “All of you, go. Just go!”

  Noemi’s nostrils flare, and I would not be surprised to see smoke curling out of them. She snatches her list back from Mrs. Bullis. With her head held not too high, nor too low, she crosses to the exit.

  We file behind her, each passing over a creaky floorboard. The shame that warms my cheeks feels more diffuse than it did at age thirteen, and I gather it in my hands and set it in a corner. Maybe self-worth is something we grow into day by day, the way a spine elongates and calcifies. Hammer Foot once said that people don’t lack strength, they lack the will. As I follow Noemi and her friends out the door of the Grace Baptist Church, I muse he wasn’t talking about these ladies, whose iron wills may not shine, but do ring when hammered.

  * * *

  —

  THE STREETLAMPS FLICKER as we pass by, and a three-quarter moon keeps its eye on us. Rose slips an arm around Mary, who sways a little on her feet. “Well, that was a bust. I didn’t even get to finish my stitches.”

  “Just what were you stitching anyway?” asks Noemi. “A squirrel?”

  “Nope.” Rose throws a grin back at us.

  “A pinecone?” I offer, but she shakes her head.

  “Oh no, Rose, you didn’t,” says Mary.

  “I did. They deserve a few patty cakes. Maybe next time, they’ll think twice about giving us the back end of the horse.”

  The night is cool but not cold. Water droplets hang in the air, blowing wet kisses at our cheeks as we walk.

  “We should form our own society,” Noemi says quietly from beside me.

  Rose snorts. “Please, Noemi. Not until I’ve had a hot bath.”

  A voice calls after us. “Jo! Wait, Jo?”

  We all look around. Lizzie waves.

  “You go on,” I tell the others. By the time slow-footed Lizzie catches up, they could be home in bed. “I’m just around the corner.”

  “See you in the kitchen tomorrow.” With a wink, Noemi leads the others off.

  By the time Lizzie catches up, the women are no more than ripples against the screen of night. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she drawls.

  “Nor I you.”

  She throws back a tuft of hair, but it returns, like
a terrier wanting to play fetch. “What happened back there was just so”—she wiggles her gloved fingers—“unseemly. I didn’t want to be a suffragist, but Mrs. English said it’s the right thing to do, and plus it’s good for business.”

  “She’s right on both counts.”

  “Yes, well, Mother wasn’t happy. She says politics are too difficult for women to understand and that we should trust the men. She’s not a fan of Miss Sweetie.”

  I feign interest in a passing carriage.

  “Not like me.” Her blue eyes watch me with an unexpected intensity, and my skin tingles. “I know, Jo.” She brings her face close enough for me to notice a thin white scar above her eyebrow.

  I hardly breathe. “You know what?”

  “You are Miss Sweetie.”

  Thirty

  Something smug sits back on Lizzie’s face.

  Did Nathan tell her? I lick my lips, which have suddenly gone dry. “Why would you think I’m Miss Sweetie?”

  “You lost your job and then suddenly you’re working at the Focus the same time as her columns start showing up. Remember that letter from Hatless in Atlanta, asking how to stretch a tight hat? I wrote that letter. I didn’t expect you to write back. Steam the inner ribbon, you said. I forgot that you had taught me that trick at English’s.” She hoists a wide grin like a trophy.

  “Oh.” My kneecaps bobble. She could unmask me. The Focus would lose its credibility, and all the work Miss Sweetie has done will slip loose, like poorly tied knots. “You won’t tell, will you? I could get into real trouble if anyone finds out.”

  “Shoo, why would you say that? We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “Er, friends, yes. Thank you, Lizzie. I appreciate it. You should get back to the meeting. Mrs. English will be wondering where you’re off to.”

  “No, she won’t. She sent me after you to ask you about those knots.”

  “Please tell her she can order them exclusively through Buxbaum’s.”

  Before reaching the abandoned barn, I conceal myself between a pair of trees, tempted to detour toward the Bells’. However, as far as I can tell, “The Custom-ary” has done its job raising interest and not pitchforks. Surely subscriptions will follow. If I visited Nathan, it would be for personal reasons, and there should be nothing more personal between us.

  A rustle in the grass freezes me in place. I strain to see into the field of weeds and brush that stretches out to the street fifty yards behind me. But anything more than a few paces away has been tarred in night. I should’ve paid more attention, instead of walking so deep in my thoughts.

  Crickets chirp, and the breeze hisses, but the sound doesn’t come again.

  Get ahold of yourself. It’s probably just a snake or a rabbit.

  With my heart beating a drum in my head, I scamper to the barn.

  Even when I’m back safe in my burrows, it is hard to rub the chill from my skin.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN I ENTER the kitchen the next morning, Noemi is hunched over the counter, reading a newspaper to Etta Rae.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  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 the Focus a 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 the Constitution, 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 the Focus, 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’t happen. 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. The Focus has 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.”

  * * *

  —

  I CARRY MY tray 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 out her 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. “H
ow 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.

  “I don’t know why I put up with an ill-bred hussy like yourself,” she snaps, though her words lack the heat of true indignation. Sighing, she sets down her spoon. “If the rumor is true, Mama and I might have to move to the country. Perhaps it will be nice to live in anonymity. I won’t have to pretend I like anyone, and I can go about as I please. Grandpapa has many horses.” Her eyes follow as I arrange her pillows.

  “Most nobodies I know don’t have horses.”

  She scoops a spoonful of egg but, instead of eating it, lets the golden treasure drip back into the shell. “I think I would enjoy the simple life. I might even take up drawing. Or horticulture.” She eyes her potted violet. “I raised that one from a seedling. Almost got the bud to bloom, too.”

  I crisp the corners of her bedsheets. “Most nobodies I know don’t have time for horticulture.”

  “You are drear.”

  I shake out a petticoat she has left on the floor. “Most nobodies I know are drear.”

  Her mouth buckles, and then she aims her gaze out the window again. “Would you come with me?”

  She holds herself very still, and a cloud draws a shadow on her face.

  The memory of how the kittens destroyed her mother’s study scratches at me, and my laugh sounds bitter. “You despise me, don’t you remember?”

  “I despise everyone.”

  “Why?”

  She snorts. “Who knows? I wanted her to myself.”

  Mrs. Payne left when Caroline was two, too young for her to remember, but maybe the heart remembers what the mind is too young to grasp. Perhaps that is why Caroline hates Noemi so much. Her mammy’s own child took priority. But me? I was just a poor orphan to whom Mrs. Payne was occasionally kind. Maybe in her young mind, Caroline considered every nod to someone else a snub to herself.