The Downstairs Girl

by Stacey Lee

  “I do not want Caroline to go visiting alone.” Mrs. Payne’s tone crisps. “If I find you have disobeyed me, you will be dismissed. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She breezes away. Quickly, I undo my waterfall braid and finish dressing. But even after every button is fastened and every stray hair is tucked under a mobcap identical to Noemi’s, I still feel exposed. Caroline is like spring weather; you know to carry an umbrella in case a cloudbuster comes along. But Mrs. Payne is winter most days of the year. It was rumored that, when Caroline was still a toddler, Mrs. Payne fell into a year-long melancholic spell during which she lived with her parents in Savannah. There is no understanding her, only the reminder that one should not get too comfortable in her presence, for things can change very quickly.

  Eight

  Dear Miss Sweetie,

  I do not possess the plump curves so in fashion. My arms are like sticks, and I have a barrel for a chest, but wearing a corset makes me red in the face. How shall I ever be beautiful?

  Miss Broad in the Middle

  Dear Miss Broad in the Middle,

  Puffed sleeves deemphasize a stocky middle, and adornment on the bib adds “treasure” to the chest. Leave the whalebone to the whales; it is healthier for both man and fish. The best way to boost your attractiveness is to accept yourself the way you are, which will free your mind to pursue creativity and joy.

  Yours truly,

  Miss Sweetie

  * * *

  —

  Noemi takes in my crisp uniform and nods. “Welcome back. Let the fun begin.” She hands me a broom. While she glides around the kitchen assembling Caroline’s tray, I sweep up pecan shells.

  “Mr. Merritt wants pecan pie for his engagement party.” Her cast-iron eyes glare at a wall hook. “Folks who love pecan pie ain’t usually the ones making it. Barely finished half, and look.” She shows me a constellation of blisters along her palm.

  “Mind if I take a crack?” I set down the broom, then take the hammer and begin splitting nuts. The first bang nearly cracks open my thumb. The second leaves a dent in the table.

  Noemi bends an eyebrow my direction. “Good. By the time you’re done, we might not have pecan pie, but we will have firewood.”

  I say a silent word of appreciation for Noemi, who had made Caroline’s cruelty easier to bear growing up here because she knew firsthand how it felt. Her mother had been Caroline’s mammy.

  Etta Rae pokes her head in the kitchen. A breeze couldn’t enter the house without her knowing it. “Work don’t get done on giggles. Noemi, if Solomon comes by, tell him to move the bicycle to the work shed by the crates with the castoffs.”

  Noemi’s eyes become thoughtful. “Yes, ma’am.” She hands me a tray of steaming oatmeal, a pitcher of cream, a bowl of brown sugar so fine it glitters, and a pot of coffee. “Better git before the porcupine starts throwing quills.”

  Climbing the stairs, I manage to keep most of the coffee in the pot, though the tray is as awkward to carry as a live pig. “Miss?” I call through Caroline’s door. Keeping an iron grip on the tray, I let myself into the room.

  Caroline sits at a mirrored dressing table. The formerly pastel room has been updated with wallpaper featuring peacock feathers, which stare like a hundred eyeballs. Turquoise swags cascade into indulgent puddles on the floor. A potted African violet with a single bud stands its ground among all the eyes. Don’t I know how it feels.

  I set the tray on a table by the window.

  Through her mirror, Caroline casts me a look severe enough to crack the glass. “Oatmeal is hardly robust. Eggs are robust. Bacon is robust. You’ve wasted my time. Still slow as ever, I see.”

  I grit my teeth and remind myself it is just a job. One that pays money that I wouldn’t have otherwise, money that will become critical if the Focus folds. Refusing to acknowledge her mocking expression in the mirror, I heft the tray and carry it back to the door.

  “Make sure you bring those eggs sunny-side. I only eat eggs sunny-side.”

  Perhaps that is because she doesn’t have one of her own. “Certainly, miss.” I duck out of the room.

  I nearly drop the tray on the old farm table. Noemi barely glances up from her spot at the sink where she is washing out the oatmeal pot.

  “Miss Caroline would prefer bacon and eggs, sunny-side,” I pant, taking over the washing of the pot.

  Noemi shakes her head slowly, as if she isn’t surprised in the least. She sets a frying pan on the stove and soon the smell of frying grease is making my stomach grumble. Something out the window catches her eye. “Ever ride a bicycle?”

  “No.” I hang the pot on the wall and edge next to her. Outside, Mr. Payne’s butler, Solomon, wheels the bicycle down the carriage track. “I’m not ready to break my legs just yet.”

  “You know how to ride a horse. A bicycle must be easier than that. It’s closer to the ground, and you don’t have to train it. See, I get these ideas, and they keep wheeling around in my head. A bicycle means no waiting for streetcars, sometimes packed so tight you can’t even breathe. Plus, I could visit my no-account brother in the blights without being pawed at.”

  Noemi rarely talks about her brother, whom, according to Robby, she’s taken to visiting every week to thump Bible-sense into his low and disease-ridden mind. But I don’t see that many women riding bicycles, let alone colored women. I heft the tray, now arranged with two perfectly cooked sunny-side eggs nestled against four rectangles of bacon, and a fresh pot of coffee. “A bicycle must cost a fair penny. You think Mrs. Payne would let you have Caroline’s castoff? She is planning to give it away.”

  Noemi adds a tiny saltshaker to the tray, but not the pepper—Caroline is allergic to pepper. Instead of answering me, she pushes me out of her kitchen. “Go before she changes her mind again.”

  * * *

  —

  “ARRANGE MY HAIR into a Newport knot,” orders Caroline, still in her dressing gown. “Be quick about it. I am late for my ride, no thanks to you.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  While I clean her scalp with a rice-root brush, she smooths cream from a tin of Beetham’s Glycerine and Cucumber onto her face. Her skin favors her father’s, thick and ruddy, not the moonlight-clear complexion of her mother.

  Her eyes catch mine, and a scowl colors her face. The mirror makes a fickle friend, my lady. Besides which, as Hammer Foot always said, it is better to look out a window than into a looking glass; otherwise all you see is yourself and what’s behind you.

  “Don’t touch this. It’s very expensive.” The label on the tin promises to rid the skin of freckles, rendering it “soft, smooth, and white.” But Caroline’s freckles are still loud as exclamation points.

  “Yes, miss.” I coil her heavy hair at the crown, and shape her curls about her forehead.

  “Noemi has the manners of a cow, but she makes passable eggs, not as good as her mama, of course, but who can measure up to one’s dear mother? You’re lucky you don’t have one.” Her blue eyes goad me in the reflection of her gilded dressing mirror.

  It’s impressive how deftly she manages to slap three faces—her mother’s, Noemi’s, and mine—with one glove. But I steel my ears against her petty remarks. She’s been singing that tune about my lack of a mother just as long as she’s been pushing Noemi off her mama’s lap. Mrs. Payne’s reminder that Caroline and I are not equals almost makes me laugh. As if Caroline would ever let me forget.

  She flings commands like stones. “Powder my neck.” “Fetch my fan—no, not that one, you cow, can’t you see it’s broken?” “Button these boots.”

  Is this to be my life, then? One tedious chore after the next, with intermittent pokes in the eye? Unlike with making hats, there is nothing to show for my work, nothing to be proud of, and certainly no gratitude. I despise it and I haven’t even made it past the
first day.

  I hold her boots while she pours in her ghostly white legs. The boots are fashioned from leather so dark they are almost black, with teardrop-shaped cutouts along the top and the polished sheen of a violin. I bet they were purchased in Italy.

  When we emerge from the grand entrance of the Payne Estate, her in an elegant navy riding habit, me in Mrs. Payne’s riding breeches, not even the sun, bright as a new penny, can cheer me.

  Old Gin is feeding Caroline’s horse, Frederick, pecans, while Sweet Potato tries to lick the cap off his head. The mare has grown at least two hands since I worked here last, and the white jag on her forehead has blossomed into a starburst. Her coat, once fuzzy with a nap that ran in every direction, lies smooth as spilled ink over her well-shaped hindquarters.

  I scratch the star on Sweet Potato’s forehead. “Aren’t you the prettiest belle on Peachtree Street? Robby would approve of those teeth. Old Gin, give me a few of those nuts.”

  Old Gin shakes his head. “No nuts for Sweet Potato. We are on a diet, hm?” He pats her neck.

  “Diet? She’s shipshape.” I stroke her left front leg, which still bears the crook that made her limp as a foal, but it feels strong and pliant. Old Gin’s massage and exercises have worked magic.

  Once Old Gin helps Caroline into the saddle, Frederick immediately begins to jitter and snort. Old Gin says that to understand your horse is to understand yourself. You cannot get a horse to mind if your own mind is in turmoil, which might explain why Frederick is trying to fling Caroline off like a hot coal.

  Frederick finally settles, and Caroline presses a hand to her nose. “I feel my allergies acting up.” She has always been reactive in both mind and body.

  Old Gin hands Caroline the reins. “At least not too windy today, so hat stays on.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want Jo to lose that charming scrap of roofing.” Caroline smirks at my misfit hat. Her gaze drops to her mother’s outfit, which fits me like a glove under a velvet jacket with a nipped-in waist. Quickly, she turns away, but not before I catch her blotchy cheeks puffed out in a scowl.

  I swing a leg over my own mount, excitement blooming inside me for the first time today. I haven’t been topside of a horse in months. Old Gin’s cowboy saddle, bought for a dollar, fits me like water cupped in a palm.

  “Giddap!” Caroline calls with a flick of her reins, before my foot has even found the stirrup.

  Remembering her mother’s caution, I tap my heels, and Sweet Potato sets off. I catch my breath at the lithe athlete she has become, with no hint of a falter remaining in her step. The world is a ball for her alone to kick and bounce along under the afternoon’s cool gaze, and we quickly catch up with Caroline traveling north up Peachtree.

  My lady’s too-erect carriage and lifted chin speak volumes about her regard for who’s riding behind her, but I’d take her back to her front any day of the week. At least the back doesn’t have a mouth. Caroline doles out nods and greetings to those she deems worthy, including a woman large with child.

  Caroline sneezes and then, with two fingers, tugs an embroidered handkerchief from her glove. I bring Sweet Potato alongside her. “Miss, would you like to rest?”

  She waves a dismissive hand. “Mrs. Nettles looks like she swallowed a planet. If men truly are the stronger species, why aren’t they the ones having the babies?”

  “Because it would require them to knit, I suppose.”

  “Ha!” Moving ahead again, she leaves me to marvel at the miracle of our exchanging words without injury. We pass under the shade of the magnolias and red oaks that sprout everywhere in Atlanta. Trees easily outnumber residents. If you could bottle up the shade and sell it for a nickel, Atlanta would be richer than even New York.

  Finally, we stop at a watering trough in an empty lot just before Our Lord’s Chapel.

  “Oh, pshaw.” Caroline twists around on the saddle, casing the ground, while her horse dips his nose.

  “Is everything okay, miss?”

  “Seems I lost my handkerchief. It can’t be far. Find it.”

  Sweet Potato is lapping thirstily, and so I set off on foot, trying to remember the last time she used her handkerchief. It was at least a block ago. She let out a honk that caused Sweet Potato’s ears to twitch. Leaves, cigar butts, miscellaneous wrappers, horse patties . . . aha! I spot it, looking like a crumpled bird in the street fifty feet away. I hurry to collect it before something stomps it, and then hoof back.

  Sweet Potato stands alone, shaking her face in the water and making a mess. It takes me a moment to recover my wits. Caroline has tricked me. The only thing left of her is the oily scent of her deception. Her mother warned me about this, yet I settled into her lie as easily as into a porch swing. I was even fooled into imagining a moment between us. I remount, cursing this job once again.

  Beyond the chapel, the mansions along Peachtree thin, and the trees grow denser. I turn down the closest cross street, keeping an eye out for her blond gelding. On my right, an expanse of tall grass leads to Six Paces Meadow. I doubt she would’ve gone there—too much pollen for her allergies.

  After another fifteen minutes of jogging up and down Peachtree and seeing no sign of Caroline or her horse, we re-tread to the watering trough. Somehow, the snake has slithered into a bush. The chapel clock chimes, indicating half past one. Beyond the chapel lies Our Lord’s Cemetery, shaded and uninviting.

  The cemetery.

  “The dead don’t tell secrets.” I steer Sweet Potato in.

  We never set foot in Our Lord’s Cemetery, but not because of the ghosts. Many years ago, a Chinese man with “rabid eyes” was rumored to have violated a white woman here. When the caretaker’s wife came upon the appalling scene with a shotgun, the Chinese man ran off, and Chinese men everywhere tried their best not to look rabid.

  Beyond the paved driveway to the chapel, hoofprints mark the ground, freshly turned dirt the color of a mourner’s suit. I pat Sweet Potato’s neck. “Guess that wasn’t so hard.”

  The few headstones are haphazardly planted among ferns, as if the dead were buried where they happened to drop. Dogwood blossoms spot the mossy carpet with an eerie kind of snow, and the air feels cool and wet. Statues of grimacing martyrs and saints with gnarled hands put a hurry in my step. Forget last rest; this is the kind of place that might keep you awake forever.

  No wonder Caroline’s previous maids did not last.

  The ground becomes drier, and the hoofprints become harder to pick out. But soon, a single vault of white stone carved with the name INNOCENTI appears on our right. Two angels guard either side of the structure, which is shaded all around by a dense grove of trees. In the grove, Frederick is tied to a stout trunk, and beside him stands a tall piebald with unusual coloring, white with a black mane.

  I have seen that horse before. Its name is Thief, and it belongs to Mr. Quackenbach, Miss Saltworth’s beau. Poor Salt. Has he spurned her? Or is he just playing a little petticoat peekaboo?

  A voice sounds from inside the vault, followed by Caroline’s distinct snort and high giggle.

  My nose wrinkles. I bet the occupants of that particular tomb wish they could move house. The guardian angels stare lifelessly ahead, daydreaming on the job.

  I tuck the information into a pocket of my mind. Then quietly, I back Sweet Potato away, leaving the sinners to their folly.

  Nine

  I catch Caroline coming out of the cemetery, a dreamy smile strung on her lips. Even the sight of me, primly waiting in a stone courtyard at the front of the chapel, doesn’t dampen her mood. Mr. Q is nowhere in evidence. “Hullo, maid.”

  “I trust your afternoon was refreshing, miss.” If not debauching.

  She slits her eyes at me. We ride in silence save the jingling of the harnesses. Only when we reach the water trough does she finally toss out, “I like to take my rides by myself. If you want to keep your job, you
won’t tell my mother. Just think, you’ll have an hour all to yourself to do whatever you want—paid, too. Surely you know a good melon when you thunk it.”

  I consider my options. The idea of taking daily larks on Sweet Potato is enticing, though I know it is wicked. Fly with the crows, get shot with the crows, as they say. Of course, Mrs. Payne will fire me if she ever finds out. But if I do tell her, Caroline will certainly find new ways to make my life a misery.

  It’s time to catch the snake under my boot, before her bite proves fatal. “The way I see it, the cemetery is where one goes to abandon their mortality, not their . . . morality.”

  Her mingy eyes clench like two fists. “You dirty sneak.”

  Despite my confident act, my heart squeezes with the thought of my boldness. “I think Miss Saltworth would be very interested in learning who else has been seasoning her roast.”

  She gasps. Even her back molars blanch. “You know Melly-Lee—? You wouldn’t.”

  “What I want is fairness. I was hired to be a lady’s maid, not to suffer your tricks and meanness. Treat me fairly, and you can keep your activities to yourself. Also, I will be wearing my hair however I wish. Agreed?”

  Crossing her arms over her chest, she glares down at the leaves floating in the trough, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the water started to boil. Frederick whickers and bows his head for another drink. Caroline glances in the direction of Our Lord’s Cemetery, and when her eyes return to me, they are laced with malice, but resigned. “Agreed.”

  * * *

  —

  WHEN I BRING the horses to the stables, Old Gin is talking over the low hedge surrounding the property with a show pony of a man leaning against a giant curly oak.

  My tongue nearly falls out of my mouth. It’s Billy Riggs, the fixer, trader of dirty secrets. He’s even wearing the same hat he wore for his picture in the Constitution, a demi-top with a stingy brim, burgundy to match his suit. Dark auburn curls conspire like weasels in the den of his neck. While his sorrel drifts on the sidewalk, he works a pocketknife over the tree’s thick bark with quick slashes.