I have a friend in the attic
Who’s kind of a book fanatic.
He can’t make a sound,
Or else he’ll be found,
Which is more than a bit problematic.
He smiles. “It’s good. Can I have it?”
No one has ever asked to keep one of my poems. “Sure,” I say.
“Miss Lizzie!” Maggy’s voice wafts up from the second floor.
Noah’s face falls. “You just got here!”
I grab his hand and squeeze it.
“Lizzie, please stay. It’s been four days. I’m going crazy.” He leans in and whispers, “Maybe I should go back.”
“No! Then you’ll be caught in the quarantine and I’ll be trying to get both of you out.”
Noah’s shoulders slide down. He chews his cheek. “Come back as soon as you can.”
I close his door and steal down the servants’ stairs, with his words still in my ears. Lizzie, please stay.
“You have a visitor at the Sweetings’,” Maggy tells me.
Oh no! Aunt Hortense has a hundred and one rules about visiting. I must say the right things, wear the right clothes, visit in the right room, and set my calling card on the correct tray.
I dive into the one dress Aunt Hortense approves of. It flaps on me without the proper petticoats.
I’m still buttoning as I rush across the way, leaping over a dead rat, its black eyes bulging. Orange Tom is at it again.
The drawing room has scarlet chairs and long curtains that puddle on the floor. Gold angels hold up glass sconces, and paintings of racehorses hang on every wall. I’m hardly ever in here. No one visits me.
“Elizabeth,” Aunt Hortense purrs in her important-lady voice. “Do come in, dear.”
Then I see, it’s only the Trotters. What a relief! There’s Gus, Gemma, and a pudgy lady in a blue hat with jeweled hatpins. All three have freckled skin and strawberry-blond hair.
“Lizzie.” Mrs. Trotter’s calling card is on a silver tray on Aunt Hortense’s polished zebrawood table. “I’m delighted to meet you.”
I bob awkwardly.
“Gus has asked that we visit.” Mrs. Trotter smiles at Gus, who turns the color of a ripe tomato.
Gemma hides behind her fan.
“I, um, wanted to ask you to the La Jeunesse cotillion,” Gus mumbles.
“Me?” I look around.
Gemma’s fan slips down. She has a huge smile on her face. Did she put him up to this?
“Of course you, Elizabeth,” Aunt Hortense chides.
“I’m just … Are you sure?” I whisper, my face as hot as a fire poker.
“Yes,” Gus says.
Aunt Hortense eyes me. She picks up a diamond-studded nutcracker and splits a walnut with a loud crack. “Elizabeth is delighted. It is lovely of you to ask.”
“It is lovely,” I say, and steal a glance at Gus.
He almost smiles.
“He’s a quiet one, but still waters run deep,” Mrs. Trotter says, holding one gloved hand with the other.
“Or gather pond scum,” Gemma whispers.
“Shush, Gemma,” Gus mutters.
“Are you sure I can’t get you some tea?” Aunt Hortense asks. “Biscuits? Scones? Our Yang Sun’s pastries melt in your mouth. You know I stole him from the Poodle Dog.”
Mrs. Trotter stands up. “Oh no, we really must be going. I’m afraid we’ve overstayed our welcome already.”
“Not at all. I’m just sorry it took us so long to find Elizabeth.”
“Lizzie, where were you?” Gemma whispers.
“I was … um, indisposed,” I say.
“Elizabeth,” Aunt Hortense barks. “Ladies do not speak of such things.”
“I thought that was the polite way to say it.”
Aunt Hortense smiles stiffly at Mrs. Trotter. “As you can see, Elizabeth is still working on her memoirs.”
We follow them down the hall and out into the entryway, with its high ceiling and the electric chandelier bigger than the one in the Grand Opera House.
I stand and wave as the Trotters climb into their carriage.
When the mansion door closes, Aunt Hortense shoots me a look that would kill a small dog. “I will not have my niece acting like a milkmaid at La Jeunesse. Miss Barstow says she heard you discussing warts and boils the other day. It’s coarse, Elizabeth. There’s a time and place for such things, but the cotillion is not—”
“Do I have to go?” I ask. “Because I’m sure to embarrass you. It’s better if I stay home.”
Aunt Hortense crosses her arms. “You’ll go, and you’ll love every minute.”
Chapter 18
Noah in My Room
It’s even more difficult to get away from Aunt Hortense now that she has made it her mission to get me fitted for a dress and jacket, petticoats, stockings, a corset, and dancing shoes. Not to mention teaching me how to drink without slurping and take tiny bites of everything. With her watching my every move, I can’t take care of the horses. Ho has to do it.
Still, I manage to get the dance instructions onto the collar of Orange Tom, and after school Noah and I have our first lesson. When I sneak my basket of supplies up to Jing’s room, Noah is waiting, his arms crossed. “It isn’t that hard,” he announces.
“Everyone’s gone except Maggy. Maybe we should practice in my room. That way I can crank up the gramophone and we can hear the music.”
Noah considers this. Then he nods slowly, deliberately.
A thrill shoots through me. Noah in my room!
“If I go down to your room, you have to swear you’ll try.”
“I do try, and everybody stares, and they make fun of me when I’m not there.”
“How do you know what they do when you’re not there?”
“I just do.”
“But isn’t Gemma your friend now?”
“I guess.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
I shrug.
He considers this. “Fen pretends to be my friend so I will help him with his arithmetic.”
“You’re good with numbers.”
“Of course.”
“Of course,” I say, and imitate his swagger.
He squints at me. “Why would I say I’m not good at something?”
“Girls are supposed to pretend they’re lousy at everything.”
“Maybe because they are.”
“No!” I stamp my foot.
He laughs. “If you’re good at something, you should say it.”
“It’s easier to do that if you’re a boy.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Now let’s work on the dancing. Where’s Maggy?”
“She’s doing the floors downstairs.”
“That takes all afternoon?”
“The way Maggy waxes, it does. Our kitchen floor is shinier than the Sweetings’, and Aunt Hortense has five maids to clean hers. If it’s all clear, I’ll whistle.”
“Whistle? You don’t whistle. You thunder down the stairs. You holler to Billy. You drop things in your room.”
“I don’t drop things.”
“You’re always banging something against the floor.”
“My boots. I kick them off.”
“Kick your boots off; then I’ll know to come down. That will seem like you.”
“Okay. I’ll go check on Maggy.” I grab the empty water pitchers and slip out the door and down the stairs. Maggy is on her hands and knees with a scrub brush. The soap smell stings my nose and makes my eyes water. After she scrubs the floor, she waxes it. She’ll be busy for a good two hours.
Back in my room, I pull the shades down, unlace my boots, and kick them off. They fly against the wall with a satisfying thunk. Then I open the door and wait for Noah.
My ears strain to hear his footsteps. Even when I see him creep down the hall, I can’t hear him.
He slips in. I close the door and slide the lock.
He’s here! So real, it’s as if I’d just imagined him
before. He looks around my room, his eyes lighting on the window-sill.
“Baba gave these to you.” He picks up a tiny chair Jing carved out of wood. “I helped him make this one. He said you don’t feel like you fit in. He said he made you a chair so you would know there’s always a place for you at the table.”
I stare at him. I’ve always loved that little chair, but I didn’t know that was why he’d given it to me.
Noah’s face relaxes into a smile, and he bows, one hand behind his back.
He takes my arm, and my neck gets hot. His palm feels strange on my back, like the skin is too aware of his hand. I’m sweating where I hold him.
Together we muddle through a simple waltz step. Noah doesn’t know how to do this any better than I do. I’m not the only one stepping on the wrong foot.
I’m taller than Noah, but even that isn’t important here.
I’m wearing my ordinary clothes, but my skirt feels lighter.
My plan was to crank up the gramophone, but it’s too dangerous. What if Aunt Hortense came home early? How would I explain the loud music?
So I hum. The longer we dance, the more it seems like there is music. I like the way his hand feels in mine. I like standing so near to him.
A barrel rolls across the cobblestones. Outside, the light has shifted. How long has it been?
“Lizzie?” Noah whispers. He looks at me hard, and then his eyes skitter away.
“What?”
“I can’t stay up there alone much longer. Where is my father?”
We stop dancing. “I don’t know, but I’ll find him.” My words seem full of hot air. I don’t know what to do next.
He gazes at the blind. Then sighs. “Here, let me show you the lion dance.” He crouches down and hops on one foot like an animal on the prowl. I mimic him. His head pops up, his hands like paws. I hop when he hops and stay still when he does.
I fall over, and we try not to laugh.
He jumps and leaps, his legs like springs.
Then Billy drives Juliet through the Sweeting entrance. Noah must get back to his room before Billy comes up.
I put one finger over my mouth; with the other I point upstairs. Noah nods, then tiptoes to the door. “Lizzie, you’ll tell me if you find out something about Baba.” His eyes shift.
“Of course! But I’ve told you everything I know.”
“No matter what happens, you’ll tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Swear you won’t tell anybody about me. Nobody. Ever. Swear it,” he whispers.
“I haven’t told anyone.”
“I know that. Wait!” He takes a needle out of his sleeve and stabs his thumb with it. We watch the drop of blood appear, a bright spot of red on his brown skin.
I look into his eyes, dark eyes, true eyes … the eyes of a friend who knows more about me than anyone else.
“I swear.”
I push my thumb toward him. He pokes it, one quick jab, glancing up as if he hopes he didn’t hurt me. Our thumbs touch. Blood to blood.
Chapter 19
Chicken
Saturday morning, before I’m even out of my nightclothes, Nettie is in my room searing my scalp with a curling iron; then she twists combed whorls of my hair up tight, each pin like a weapon. I beg for Maggy, but Nettie says, “Fiddle-faddle. Maggy isn’t a lady’s maid. She doesn’t know how to do hair. If Maggy worked in the Sweetings’ household, she’d be a scullery maid.”
When Nettie leaves, I rip out half of the hairpins and loosen the rest.
But Aunt Hortense loves my hair. All day she and Nettie hover, drilling me: Which fork do I use for dessert? Which is my water glass? My bread and butter plate? Then Nettie insists on giving me a manicure. Torture.
I can’t get a moment to visit Noah. Luckily, I brought him extra food and water last night.
When it’s finally time to get dressed, it takes me half an hour to get everything on, even with Maggy’s help. The bodice of my dress has layers of white feathers. It fits so snugly, Maggy can barely get the dress fastened over my corset. She has to put my shoes on for me, because I can’t lean over to hook them.
The shoes pinch. The dress is so tight, my ribs may crack. Will I be able to sit down? Will I leave a trail of chicken feathers wherever I go?
When I see myself in the mirror, my heart stops.
I look from the side. Straight on. From the back with a hand mirror. I run down to the bathroom to check that mirror, and the downstairs one, too.
I see me … but the prettiest me imaginable. I almost look like Hattie or one of the beautiful girls at Miss Barstow’s. How could this be?
From one side of the room to the other I sashay, just to hear the swish of the dress on the floor, imagining what Gemma will say when she sees me. I peek in the mirror again. In my regular clothes I’m straight up and down. Now I have curves. It’s almost worth the bother to look this way.
When Billy comes downstairs, he gapes at me, then whistles.
I glare at him. “It’s nothing,” I say, but his response shocks me. I really do look different.
When Aunt Hortense sees me, her eyes beam so brightly, I have to look away. “Oh, how I wish your papa were here to see this. You are looking more and more like your mother every day.”
I should thank her, but the words won’t come out. I let her hug me, then stomp out the back door, my face hot. I walk across to the Sweeting carriage house, which is like a palace, with electric lights and hot and cold running water and a carpet in the tack room. Tonight I’ll be riding like a princess in a fine carriage.
Ho has the black carriage harnessed to four bay horses, each with four white socks. The horses have been bathed and groomed, and their coats are gleaming. Petting their sleek necks and soft muzzles makes me feel like myself again. Then I dust off my gloves. Can’t go to La Jeunesse smelling like a horse.
I climb into the carriage. Ho picks up the lines, and the horses trot forward, four pairs of ears pricked.
We pick up Billy in front of our house. Even with a faint black eye, Billy is impressive in his Prince Albert cutaway and black gloves. Ho scoots over, and Billy slides in to command the team.
Uncle Karl and Aunt Hortense stand together in the driveway. Aunt Hortense’s smile is radiant. I meet her eyes and smile, but I can’t admit that I’m glad she went to all this trouble for me. Still, I think she knows.
“Is that our Peanut?” Uncle Karl asks Aunt Hortense.
“The very same,” my aunt replies.
Billy waves goodbye, and the horses trot out the grand entrance, tails swishing, hooves clacking.
When we get to the Palace Hotel, the line is a block long, filled with the finest carriages, fringe-topped surreys, hacks, landaus, coaches, and buggies. A lone automobile waits in line, its motor spewing steam. Horses champ at their bits, paw the ground, spread their legs, and pee in the driveway. Silk-coated Chinese porters with velvet-handled shovels scurry about picking up green manure the second it drops to the ground.
Ho will return at eleven when the cotillion ends. Can I manage that long in this corset, making conversation about warts and excessive earwax with a boy I barely know? I’d like to see a young man tied into a corset for an evening. He’d never put up with it! Still, I can’t wait to see Gemma and Hattie. What will they say about me?
We roll into the Palace courtyard, making a splendid show. At the front of the line, a man with a big stomach and a topper swings a jewel-handled cane as he announces our arrival. It’s Peter, the man who works for Uncle Karl. He’s got a deep voice perfect for announcing. Plus, he knows everyone. Somebody must have pegged him for this.
“And here we have the lovely coach of Mr. and Mrs. Karl Sweeting. Mr. William and Miss Elizabeth Kennedy … what an honor to ride in your uncle’s finest.”
“The coach gets better billing than we do,” I whisper to Billy as I step out, barely avoiding tripping on my hem.
But Billy’s attention is on a girl with a waist the circumference o
f a teacup, black hair, and a crimson dress. Everyone’s watching her, but she doesn’t seem to see them. Her face lights up when Billy takes her hand.
Then Gus appears in a cutaway with a boutonniere. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched forward. His hair is newly cut, his shoes as shiny as polished spoons.
When he sees me, he smiles and stands up straight.
“Don’t say anything. I know I look like a giant chicken,” I tell him under my breath.
“Luckily, I like chicken,” he mumbles.
I smile at him. His hands are still jammed into his pockets, but for a second I see the man he is becoming. My cheeks are hot as we walk together.
What do I say? Launching a discussion about earwax suddenly seems like a bad idea. “Where’s Gemma?” I ask.
“She’s supposed to be with Spencer, but he doesn’t seem to know that.”
“Oh no! He doesn’t know he’s Gemma’s escort?”
Gus shrugs. “He knows.”
“Let’s go find her.”
Gemma is wearing a painted silk dress with a blue beaded bodice that brings out the blue in her eyes. She’s already seated at one of the long white tables ablaze with candles. When she sees me, her eyes glisten. “Lizzie! You look so pretty.”
“You do, too,” I say. “What happened to Spencer?”
Her nostrils flare. She looks away.
“Want us to go find him?”
She nods.
I follow Gus to the back of the enormous, glass-domed courtyard filled with palms. Light pours in from the glowing ceiling, and violins play. In the middle of the floor, Spencer dances with a beautiful blond girl in a dress the color of the evening sky. Spencer can’t take his eyes off her.
“Spencer.” I’m about to lurch forward and give him a piece of my mind. How dare he dance with someone else when he came with Gemma?
Gus takes me by the hand, which stops me cold. Sweat drips down under my corset. “Do we have to dance?”
Gus smiles at me.
We stand at the edge of the dance floor full of glittering dresses and dark pressed suits. It smells of perfume and perspiration. Spencer and the girl in the evening-sky dress look as if they’ll never come off the floor. If we’re going to talk to him, we’ll have to dance out there.
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