Katherine gives me a long look before sniffing indignantly. “Really, Jane, as though you’re the only one to smuggle in contraband. Everyone has a little something, you’re just the only one who gets caught.”
I cover my face with my hands and pray to the Lord above for strength. “Kate, has it occurred to you how odd it is that the mayor would invite us to a formal dinner, just like that? It’s been over two weeks since the lecture, and he didn’t seem to think much of our heroics until a week later. Not to mention the fact that he’s embroiled in some scandal involving the Spencers.”
She gives me a narrowed-eyed look and sighs, pulling back her catalog and flipping through the pages. “I don’t find it odd at all. He’s obviously a busy man. And his wife is known for the care and dedication she takes when planning the details of her soirees. Anyway, how do you know the mayor didn’t help the Spencers start a new life somewhere fine? All this panic is completely unnecessary. Besides, we’ll be there as Attendants, not as real guests. It’s not at all the same.” Her gaze gets all dreamy and faraway. “I wonder how many courses there will be. My mother went to a dinner once where they had seventeen courses. Seventeen! She said by the end she was so stuffed she could barely even taste the food. Can you imagine?”
I perk up at the mention of Katherine’s mom. She’s as much a mystery amongst the girls at Miss Preston’s as my own mother. “Is that so? Does your mother go to a lot of dinner parties?”
Katherine’s expression shutters and she bends back down to her magazine. “A few. What about your mother, Jane?” Her tone is mild, but it’s clear she’s avoiding my question.
“Oh, my momma’s been to a few.” None since the last dinner party held at Rose Hill Plantation, though. It was just after the major returned, battle weary and grim, talking about the end of the world and God’s judgment. Momma sat me next to her at the table during the dinner as she always did, stroking my hair like a favorite pet. The neighbors were used to this behavior, since they’d been to dinner at Rose Hill a number of times. It seemed normal to all of us, but the major’s expression grew stormy throughout the courses. When momma had me grab the Bible after dessert to read a few passages to the neighbors, the major’s simmering temper exploded.
“You taught a darkie to read? Have you lost your goddamn mind, Ophelia?” he screamed while the neighbors watched, bug-eyed. Momma sent me off to Auntie Aggie to get tucked into bed before she escorted the neighbors out, making excuses for the major, talking about the stress of war and the horror of watching half of your regiment get slaughtered only to rise up and start eating the other half.
The neighbors nodded and made polite clucking noises as they walked to their iron ponies. They believed my momma, but they hadn’t felt the way she tensed when the major yelled, or the way she gripped my arms when he called me a darkie. I was old enough to know that things were about to get bad at Rose Hill. But I wasn’t afraid of the major.
No, I’d seen what happened when momma didn’t get her way. It never ended well.
Two days later, the major was a shambler with a bullet in his skull and I had my first harvest at ten years old.
“Jane, are you even listening?” Katherine’s sigh jolts me from my reverie. There’s an ache in my chest from thinking about my momma for too long, and I curse myself for getting lost in the past. Now I’m going to be maudlin for the next few days, remembering times gone by. This is why it’s better not to think about Rose Hill at all.
“Jane!”
“What?”
“I do believe that’s Jackson waving to you from the tree line.”
I glance up, and sure enough there’s Red Jack, jumping around on the other side of the barrier fence like he hasn’t got a lick of sense. I shake my head and point him toward the back of the school, through the trees to the old slave cabin. We used to meet back there when we were something more than uneasy friends, and I hope he remembers the spot. If anyone from the house sees him, they’re going to wonder why a boy is tromping around the school grounds, and I’ll be in hot water.
I wait a full minute or so before climbing to my feet and going to the back of the yard. Katherine stays put, flipping pages and muttering to herself about my inability to appreciate good fashion. The sound of fighting comes from the practice grounds as I cut toward the back of the property. The younger girls have their first evaluations coming up at the end of the month. How they rate will determine their rankings, and those rankings will one day make the difference between eking out a living on one of the mayor’s cleanup crews or an assignment as a lady’s Attendant, offering protection and companionship while living the good life.
I manage to make my way to the barrier fence without discovery, and Red Jack is there, leaning against the tall wrought iron and looking like he hasn’t a care in the world. His nonchalance is belied by his split lip, swollen eye, and the blood dotting the front of his waistcoat.
“Uh-oh, did Harvey Parker finally catch you fooling around with his wife?”
Jackson scowls at me. “Very funny. No, this is what happens when you try to sneak into Mayor Carr’s estate.”
“You went trespassing at the mayor’s? Near as I figure, you’re lucky to still be breathing.”
“That’s the same thing his boys told me. Luckily one of them is a fan of the dog races, and he did me a favor in exchange for making sure a few of the well-known puppies never make it to the track to run again.” Red Jack winces as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, hand holding his side.
Katherine gasps, stealing up behind us like a shambler in the night, me near to jumping out of my skin from the surprise. I scowl at her, but she ignores me. “You aren’t going to kill a dog are you? That’s awful.”
Jackson raises a single brow at her. “Of course not, I ain’t a monster. There are lots of kids in the city who’d like to claim a stray as their own, that’s all. And you’d be surprised how easy it is to switch out a winner for a similar-looking loser.”
“You came all the way here, half-broken, just to tell me that the mayor’s boys almost stomped you into mush and that you’re planning on fixing a few races in the future?” I ask, interrupting. I ain’t at all endeared to the friendliness between Jackson and Katherine. It’s petty, but I’m okay with that.
Jackson shifts slightly and sighs. “You heard those people at the Spencers’. Mayor Carr has something to do with Lily’s disappearance. I need to get into his house and figure out what.”
I open my mouth to offer some paltry platitude, when I’m interrupted by Katherine saying, “Maybe we could help. We’re going there for dinner.”
I shoot Katherine my best Are you stupid? glare, but Jackson’s already perked up. “Going where for dinner? Mayor Carr’s?”
Katherine nods, bouncing up onto the balls of her feet and back down again. “Yes! We got invited to this fancy dinner party on account of saving so many folks at the lecture a couple of weeks ago.”
Jackson looks at me and I shake my head. “We’re going as Attendants. Fancy servants with sharp weapons. But you didn’t want our aid before, and we ain’t going to have time to help now with whatever poppycock plan you dream up. Plus, I ain’t so sure this whole invite is on the up and up. We’ll have our hands full just taking care of ourselves.”
Katherine sighs heavily. “You have such a morbid outlook, Jane. That doesn’t make any sense. Good Attendant positions aren’t getting any easier to land. This is a real opportunity.”
“Nothing those Survivalists offer is an ‘opportunity,’” I mutter.
“When are you two supposed to go?” Red Jack asks, a familiar twinkle in his eye. He is planning something, and whatever it is ain’t going to be good.
“Tomorrow,” Katherine says. “We even got new dresses. It is going to be quite the event.”
Jackson nods, and just like that I know I’m in for some kind of mischief. I glance at Katherine, hoping maybe I can convince her this is a terrible idea, but she’s just giving Red Jack this friendly grin
and I bury my face in my hands. Despite my best intentions I’m about to be sucked into some kind of high drama.
I am surrounded by nothing but suicidal muttonheads.
Momma, I do believe that the manners and etiquette taught at Miss Preston’s may be some of the best instruction in the whole state of Maryland, if not all of the United States. Honestly, where else do Negro girls get to truly learn their place: serving the fine white folks of the world and keeping them safe?
Chapter 13
In Which I Attend a Rather Eventful Dinner
The mayor’s iron pony picks us up at half past four. Dinner is to begin at five thirty with cocktails, and Miss Anderson doesn’t want to be late. There’s murder in her eyes when she talks about how grand the mayor’s dinner is going to be. And the wide smile she gives when Katherine and I climb into the passenger compartment does not help the anxiety clawing its way through my guts. Not one bit.
Katherine is chatty as a magpie on the way to the mayor’s house, and even Miss Duncan looks a bit fatigued from attempting to share in her good humor. Katherine, however, is plain radiant. Her gold-streaked curls are swept into an Attendant’s bun high on her head. Escaped ringlets soften the harsh style. Her Attendant’s formal dress is a pale pink that compliments her golden skin perfectly and falls to her knees; the undertrousers are a darker pink, and the stockings and boots are cream. Her white gloves, which I refused to wear because they made my hands feel clumsy, are effortlessly elegant. A jab of jealousy hits me every time I look over at her. She looks like some kind of delicious confection. Nobody needs to be that pretty, especially in silly Attendant’s garb.
My dark thoughts are misplaced, though. It’s only because of Katherine’s help that I ain’t looking too bad myself. My Attendant’s garb is done in shades of green. The dress is an emerald that sets off the deep bronze of my skin in a very nice way, while the undertrousers are a lighter shade, my stockings striped green and white, and my boots brown. I’ve never had such a lovely dress, the fit snug enough to let me fight yet modest enough not to cause scandal. My sickles—the fancy ones from Red Jack, not the ungainly practice ones from school—are strapped into a fine leather belt tooled to carry such things, the holster on the belt empty, since Mayor Carr doesn’t much care for guns in his estate. There are even pockets sewn into the skirt, a request the dressmaker was happy to oblige, and I’ve hidden Tom Sawyer in one just in case I find time to read some later. Katherine helped me do something with my stubborn curls, using a pair of hot tongs to subdue the mess into the required Attendant’s bun.
When she’d showed me what she’d done in the mirror, I’d laughed. “Well, look at that. I look right proper.”
“Don’t worry, Jane, you could never pass for proper,” Katherine had said, her tone teasing instead of harsh. Wonder of all wonders, I do believe we are becoming friends.
We arrive at the mayor’s estate safe and sound, which is somewhat of a surprise, what with all of Katherine’s talking and what I am certain is impending doom in Miss Anderson’s treacherous eyes. We get out, and Katherine takes a deep breath. “Jane, look at it. It’s breathtaking.”
Mayor Carr’s house is quite impressive. The barrier fence that surrounds the grounds is made of wrought iron at least ten feet tall, and I wonder how Jackson was able to scale such a high fence. Dogs patrol the grass around the property, sniffing the ground. I’ve heard of such dogs, they’re similar to the dogs the slave patrols used to hunt down runaways in the old days. These dogs are trained to alert on shamblers, barking loudly and getting right vicious when they smell the undead. But right now? They just look like normal floppy-eared dogs.
Still, I make a point not to get too close.
The house itself is monstrously huge. It’s equally as big as our school, but tobacco fields, not woodland, surround the back acreage. The mayor’s house is newer and made of a white stone that rises up four stories, the roof topped by a plethora of cupolas and gables, looking very fancy and imposing. But there’s something else here that catches my eye, something even more impressive than the size of the house.
Electric lights.
I’ve seen electricity before, of course—word of Mr. Edison’s experiments in New Jersey had made their way down the Eastern Seaboard and there had even been a demonstration a year or so back here in Baltimore. I’ve never heard of them installed in a private home, though, and yet here they are, lighting up the pathway to the entrance. I couldn’t help but stare.
This is the house of a man used to being followed and obeyed, a man who has enough people between him and the shambler threat to never feel fear.
Miss Anderson and Miss Duncan lead the way up the front walk. Katherine and I keep a few paces behind, as taught. She walks with the grace and carriage of a true lady; I slouch along, hands resting on the hilts of my sickles, ready to draw them at the first sign of trouble.
Both of our instructors wear sedate, dove-gray dresses, but even the plain attire ain’t enough to detract from Miss Duncan’s beauty; Mr. Redfern’s eyes settle on her as soon as we enter the sitting room where most of the attendees have gathered for drinks. Coming over to greet our party, he’s the spitting image of the civilized savage the papers are always discussing: well-cut jacket, fashionable waistcoat, hair pulled back in a queue, well-worn boots, and a Bowie knife strapped to his waist. The perfect combination of gentleman and ruthless killer, just like the main character in some frontier adventure. He wears it like a costume, and I get the feeling Mr. Redfern also likes to use the low expectations of people to his advantage. Either way, it is most definitely a style that works for him, judging from the way Miss Duncan lights up. While Miss Anderson and Mr. Redfern exchange pleasantries, I note that he wears the knife on his right side. Mr. Redfern is left-handed, an interesting fact that I file away for later.
Mr. Redfern’s eyes barely even take in the rest of us before he bows deeply to Miss Duncan. “It is a pleasure to have your company for the evening meal, ladies. If you would follow me, I would be happy to make introductions.”
Miss Duncan, for her part, smiles widely. “Thank you, sir. I’m afraid I’m at a loss, because I never got the privilege of your name.” The two of them make eyes at each other for a minute, sharing a secret.
Mr. Redfern smiles. “My apologies. I am Daniel Redfern.”
Miss Duncan gives a quick curtsy. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Redfern. Amelia Duncan.”
I don’t know who they think they’re fooling with this act, but I’m convinced utterly that they are already well acquainted. Miss Duncan knows Mr. Redfern, but how? She catches me scowling at her and raises a questioning eyebrow. I smooth my expression and turn my attention back to the introductions.
Miss Duncan gestures at me and Katherine. “I trust you already know the girls.”
“Yes, we have met.” Mr. Redfern nods politely at Miss Anderson and Katherine before his eyes settle on me, his pleasant expression going hard. “Follow me,” he says.
I stand there, baffled, as they all file off to meet the crème de la crème of Baltimore’s elite. It might be my imagination, but I do believe this is the third time Mr. Redfern has looked at me as though he’d like nothing more than to use me as shambler bait.
I take my time following for the introductions, getting a feel for the house before making my way through the crowd. The sitting room is large, and off to the side is a massive dining room with seating for forty. The rooms here are lit by regular old gas lamps; I suppose the mayor put the electric ones outside to show off to guests and passersby. I watch as Mr. Redfern introduces Katherine and the Misses Duncan and Anderson to a group of women clustered together like a group of chattering hens, their broad chests puffed out in self-importance. One glance at their faces has me walking in the opposite direction.
Momma always said a healthy serving of scorn before dinner keeps a girl slim.
I remain posted up near the doorway while Katherine and the instructors circulate through the crowd.
From here I can see right into the dining room and the majority of the sitting room while being blissfully ignored.
In the dining room servants are putting out place settings. A pasty-complexioned man barks out orders to the servants, most of them darker than me. They’re older, and they have the hangdog look I associate with the folks who came up enslaved, who never knew a taste of freedom until it was too late for them to properly embrace it. But one of the men walks with his head a little too high, as though he knows his worth. He’s lighter than the rest, his shoulders thrown back in a proud way, a sparkle of mischief in his too-light eyes.
Red Jack.
He looks out of place in a servant’s white shirt and jacket, gloves on his hands. The bruising on his face is barely noticeable, no doubt covered up by cosmetics from one of the working girls he knows. What does he think he’s doing, trying to hide in plain sight when the mayor’s boys roughed him up not two days ago? He sees me enter and pauses for a moment, raising a single eyebrow in a way that says, Look at you, all cleaned up. I give him my best glare, and he just winks at me.
Watching the preparations for dinner causes a lump to rise up in my throat. A wave of homesickness like I’ve never felt washes over me, and I place a hand on my middle. Sudden tears threaten, and I blink hard to force them away. It’s been so long since I’ve been to Rose Hill that I wonder if the whole memory ain’t some kind of fever dream.
Does my momma even miss me? All my memories of Rose Hill are filled with her—her voice, her delicate beauty. But here, so many miles from home, I have to wonder if the place even exists. For all the letters I post to her regularly, Momma hasn’t written me in over ten months.
Is she even still alive? I could be writing to a ghost. Or worse, a shambler.
It’s a question I’ve refused to ask myself. I don’t want to think about what it would do to my world if Momma is dead. The only thing that’s kept me going at Miss Preston’s is the way Momma looked at me when the truant officer pulled me away toward the waiting pony. “Be the best. Learn what you need to learn and come back to me,” she’d said. So I will.
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