The Downstairs Girl

by Stacey Lee

  My ears perk up at a mention of Miss Sweetie by Mrs. Bell.

  “The bicycle article was perfect. Made me wish I were younger. I would like to meet this woman.”

  I suck in my breath and silently implore Nathan to divest his mother of this notion.

  “I don’t think that’s wise,” he says after a considerable pause. “She made it clear she wishes to be anonymous, and if we press her, she might quit, and she’s already working for free.”

  “I suppose you’re right. How old did you say she was?”

  “I couldn’t tell, Mother. Her face was covered.”

  “Well, what did her voice sound like?”

  “Like a regular voice.”

  I shall need to thrash my voice up a bit, maybe even smoke a few cigarettes like Mrs. English does, chased by some meat pies and plenty of beer.

  “Not again, Nathan. You’re a reporter. Give me a better description than that.”

  I press my ear closer and will my heartbeat to pipe down.

  “To be honest, it sounded like she was nursing a cold, phlegmy.”

  “Phlegmy?”

  “Yes. Now, that’s a word that doesn’t care what anyone thinks. All those letters trying to prop up the ‘leg’ in the middle.”

  “Nathan.”

  “Without the cold, I imagine her voice would be clear and forthright like a good ginger ale—the kind of voice that gives good advice.”

  “So she’s bossy.”

  “I wouldn’t—”

  “Why do you think she wants to be anonymous? Maybe she has a controlling husband.”

  I imagine a glint in the woman’s gray eyes as she presses a finger to her cheek.

  “Or maybe she has chin hairs and nose warts, and she uses a broomstick to get around town,” he says.

  I slap a hand over my mouth to keep my smile from floating up.

  “Oh, Nathan. You needn’t be sarcastic. Anyway, we owe her a lot. Forty-nine subscriptions today alone. Advertisers are sure to follow. I hope she stays.”

  Forty-nine is an improvement, but it’s still not enough.

  “She got more letters today. I hope she has a big broomstick.”

  * * *

  —

  I STEAL UP to the Bells’ front door, shivering. The cold seems to have crystallized into a freezing dust. It’s as if the winter dragon were salting the earth liberally for its supper. Lucky Yip told me that season dragons can be jealous, producing weather extremes to prevent the next season’s dragon from moving in.

  Through the arched windows, I can see Nathan running the press, a mesmerizing operation that involves intense hand-eye-foot coordination and reams of paper. Iron blocks hang from the walls, like empty picture frames, and a fire blazes in the hearth. Nathan has pushed up the sleeves of a thick sweater, which obscures most of his collared shirt. His printer’s apron is smeared with black ink.

  The mail slot has been repaired. Still, I remove my glove and knock. Tonight, I shall be nimble and quick, and avoid jumping over any candlesticks that might end up burning me. The door creaks open, and heat caresses my front, sweetened by the sound of Bear’s joyous yelps. The dog paces from side to side, restrained by Nathan’s hand around her collar.

  “Hello? Is it you again? Er, Miss Sweetie?”

  “Yes,” I say to the street, though my scarf muffles my voice. I fumble in my coat for my column.

  “It’s nice to see you’re back and, er, your back. Please come in. It is arctic out there. Plus, I have more letters of admiration for you.”

  “More? Well, I shall keep this short,” I bark with annoyance, hoping to pinch more crust into my Mrs. English voice.

  A wind so chilly it makes my teeth ache seems to slice right through me. Even Nathan hisses. “How would it look if our advice columnist perished over something as foolish as failing to heed common sense? No one would buy papers for sure.”

  I loosen the scarf from my mouth and face him. “It’s also common sense not to enter the homes of strangers.”

  “Ah, but there you are mistaken. We are not strangers, and this is not my home, which is over there.” He jerks his chin toward the other side of the building. “If it will make you feel better, I will wear a blindfold, though it will be more difficult to fetch you tea.”

  “I don’t need tea. I only wish—”

  “Well, if you don’t need tea, then it’s perfect. I will fetch the blindfold.” He disappears with Bear, while I pull lint from my mouth, trying to figure out if he is serious.

  The sounds of footsteps and paw scratching draw near again. To my relief, Nathan is not carrying a blindfold but a sack of something bulky, which he sets by the doorway. Bear sits obediently by Nathan’s side, though even sitting, she vibrates with energy. “Now then, where were we?”

  I clear my throat, off balance by our repartee. Surely, Nathan would not be so cheeky to someone he thought was a respectable madam. I draw myself up to my haughtiest posture, just like Mrs. English when a rival milliner dropped in for a visit. “Here is Thursday’s column. The contents are a slight departure from the last two. I shall wait while you read it.”

  I hold out my letter but shrink back when he moves closer to take it. He stops. “Er, Bear, fetch.”

  With a woof, she springs to life, gamely delivering my letter to her master, only a little wetter than it started out. He unfolds my column and turns to better use the firelight. As he reads, I study his profile, from the stubborn line of his stubbled chin to his deep-set eyes, which take in more than they give away. A rather forgettable nose dips in the middle as if pressed by a finger. As he reads, his usually downturned mouth nudges into a smile, and I feel a strange compulsion to fit my own smile against it.

  Despite his grouchiness, there’s a sturdiness to Nathan, cultivated by loving parents who, unwittingly or not, blessed him with a humble and principled upbringing. They fletched him right, and he will probably fly far in life.

  He refolds the paper, and the smile fades away. His eyebrows clench together, as if he’s feeling the edges of his thought before judging its shape. “It is clever. More than clever, it’s brilliant.” He shifts around in the doorway, as if puzzling out which leg he prefers. “If it were my choice, I would publish it in an instant. But I will need to speak to my mother about this.”

  “I understand.” I hide my disappointment in a brisk and forward manner. “I will bring you an alternative in the next day or two, just in case.”

  “Thank you. Er, well, there is another thing.” He tugs at his collar.

  Both Bear and I watch him expectantly, though only one of us is breathing. Perhaps he no longer wants my services now that I’ve proven myself a rabble-rouser. A tub thumper.

  “We insist on paying you. It’s not much, a nickel an article. But Mother says if we don’t pay you, we would be taking advantage of you.”

  “I thought I made myself clear,” I grumble. “No payment, or I shall not write. If it will make you feel better, donate the money to the orphanage.”

  “As you wish. ‘Pedaling Us toward the Future’ was a sellout. You chose a germane topic.”

  “I don’t know what the Germans have to do with it.”

  He blinks, and in that fatal instant, I realize I’ve goosed up. Drat those G-words.

  “Not Germans.” Half a grin tips his face to one side. “Germane. Relevant.”

  “I know what germane means.” I grind my voice to give weight to my indignation. “It is rude to correct your elders.”

  “I only meant to—”

  “It is also rude to argue with them. I will have my letters now.”

  “Er, certainly.” He hefts the sack, which is large enough to hold fifteen pounds of grain.

  “Giddy goobers.”

  “Giddy goobers?” He smiles. “I told you there were a lot. May I help you carry them?
”

  “No. That invites further inspection of my person, of which you have already done enough inspecting for one night. I am used to carrying my own bags. Just set them down and close the door.”

  “I insist on passing them to you. They are much too heavy to lift.”

  Before I can protest, Nathan has moved closer and is pushing his cargo toward me. With an exasperated gasp, I reach for the sack, but to my horror, he doesn’t let go. We hold the sack from both sides for an excruciating moment, like two farmhands relocating a hive that has started to buzz. He releases the sack at the same time I do, and then we both grab it again.

  “I’ll take it,” I insist, pulling it toward me. But the uneven weight causes me to lose my grip, and I drop it. “Oh! Look what you’ve done.”

  I crouch to collect the bundles of letters that have spilled out between us.

  “Forgive me,” he says, seeming to force the words through his teeth.

  The warmth of his energy tugs at mine, and I hastily draw away from him. Bear woofs, dancing around us. “I shall take one bundle. I cannot answer them all.” Even if I did manage to drag the sack back to the basement, I could not conceal all the letters from Old Gin.

  “Of course not. I simply thought you would like to see how much you are”—something causes him to freeze in place—“admired.”

  The cold night blows at my lips. My scarf has fallen away, giving Nathan a close look at the territory south of my nose. I quickly curtain my mouth and stand, reining in the pounding hooves of my heartbeat. Still kneeling, he holds out a bundle. My heart catches at the earnestness of his expression, his own mouth half open in disbelief. I’m seized by yet another irresistible urge to fit my lips against his. Instead, I snatch the bundle, and Miss Sweetie makes an exit that is far from nimble, but certainly quick.

  Seventeen

  Dear Miss Sweetie,

  I shunned my dearest friend “Mary” by accepting the invitation of a popular socialite, “Kate,” who despises Mary. I had hoped that befriending Kate would open doors for me and, eventually, for Mary. But now Mary will have nothing to do with me, and Kate no longer invites me to her parties. How do I get my real friend back?

  Sincerely,

  Friend in Mourning

  Dear Friend,

  As you have learned, better a diamond with a flaw than a pebble without one. Lost trust takes time to rebuild. But with consistency and humility, the diamond can be unearthed again.

  Yours sincerely,

  Miss Sweetie

  * * *

  —

  Monday muscles in like the first rooster in the ring, talons out, ready to draw blood. With no maid on the weekends, my chores have doubled in size, while Caroline’s patience has been reduced by half.

  In the library, she scratches out correspondence, her face scrunched in a grimace. I untangle a basket of embroidery thread and work out which lion Miss Sweetie will choose to battle next. So many lions prowl right here in this room. With debutante season starting, this week promises an ever-spinning carousel of social engagements for Caroline, not just whist-playing, but also pressing ferns into scrapbooks and lawn bowling. It all sounds like good fun, but Caroline never seems to enjoy herself with other people, though unlike with the servants, she must put on a good face. Either that or she doesn’t care for the conversations, which inevitably turn toward the business of securing a husband.

  I can’t blame her. The husband business strikes Miss Sweetie as uncannily similar to the scramble that ensues during an Easter egg hunt, where the egg’s only hope is to sit as prettily as possible so that it will be picked up before it spoils. Like Caroline, I am in no hurry to be found, though plans are under way.

  Dare Miss Sweetie stick her head in the marriage lion’s mouth? It is a subject that most women could relate to, especially right now. I bet it would bring in more than fifty subscriptions.

  Caroline’s wingback chair groans as she fidgets, and if paper could talk, it would probably be whimpering, too, under the weight of her pen. Caroline moves through life with a tight grip on the world, as if she were afraid of being shaken off. Or maybe she’s determined to leave a mark on the world, the same reason she grinds her shoes into the earth or scorches the air with her caustic remarks.

  “This paper is defective! How did this pass quality control?”

  “What do you mean, miss?”

  “The fibers caught a speck of something, maybe sand, or an insect.” She grimaces. “The nib catches along the watermark.”

  “What’s a watermark?”

  I expect her to ignore me, but instead, she holds the paper at eye level, parallel to the floor. “See there?”

  I squint at her too-flowery penmanship. At the point that her pen left off, the Payne Mills insignia, PM, is pressed into the page, only visible if looked at from an angle.

  “I never noticed it before.”

  “Father puts it on all the premier-line stationery, though if I’d paid an ounce of gold for a half ream of this, I would want my money back. It’s that Mr. Foggs. He works the girls too long, till they can’t see straight.”

  “Surely your father can do something about that?”

  “Father holds Mr. Foggs in too high estimation.” She crumples her paper and lobs it into the fireplace. “Mind you, ask the mail carrier when he calls where my package is. It should’ve arrived weeks ago. And snuff the fire. The smoke is giving me a headache. No, no, don’t open the window. Are you stupid? I shall catch a draft!”

  I don’t close the window right away, but let the cool air soothe my vexation. Ever since my comment about the bicycle costing as much as a horse, she has begun to rub off the edges of our agreement and my patience.

  Mrs. Payne’s boots make ladylike taps as she enters the library, elegantly draped in cream-colored wool, and clutching a letter. Noemi follows her, bearing a tray that holds a simple tea service and a small brown package. Still reading her letter, Mrs. Payne lowers herself into an armchair. “How about that? The Atlanta Suffragists put in a bid to sponsor a horse.”

  “Well, now, did I ever forecast that,” Caroline practically sings.

  Noemi hands Caroline the package. The sleeves of Caroline’s black silk robe flap like the wings on a bird of prey as she tears it open. “At last!” She plucks out a shiny tin of Beetham’s Glycerine and Cucumber cream.

  Ignoring her, Mrs. Payne reads, “‘Though our offer be meager, we hope you accept, knowing that our sponsorship would be of symbolic importance to all women. We can run the race as well as any man. We only need the opportunity.’” She turns her attention to Noemi, pouring tea. “A hundred dollars puts them in the running. And you know those suffragists will protest if I don’t let them put their name on a horse. What to do?”

  “Tell them they were outbid.” Caroline applies the cream with vigorous strokes to her cheeks and hands.

  “They’ll figure it out. People talk.”

  Noemi offers Mrs. Payne a plate of gingersnaps. “Seems to me, you can never go wrong with honesty, ma’am.”

  Caroline’s shiny face splits open. “What has possessed you to think we care for your opinion?”

  Noemi drops her head, and Mrs. Payne’s face becomes thoughtful. “We have always valued our domestics’ opinions.”

  Caroline’s gaze slings to me, as if I were the source of the trouble.

  “Honesty is the best policy, especially with all eyes on this race,” Mrs. Payne continues. “Though, if I give the suffragists a horse, the Atlanta Belles will be in a lather. Fans will go up.” With her letter, she mimes drawing open a fan and hiding her face behind it, as the ladies do when they gossip.

  Proceeds from the race go to the Society for the Betterment of Women, which supports orphans and widows. But the Atlanta Belles would rather parade about in their petticoats than associate with the loudmouthed suffragists, ev
en though they are working toward the same cause. It is perfectly acceptable to treat women as charity, but perish the thought they should be enabled to help themselves. Another lion growls in Miss Sweetie’s face.

  I snort a little too loudly, and I fumble the spool I am winding.

  Caroline cups her hand to her ear and leans dramatically toward the entryway. “What’s that? I believe another unsolicited opinion is knocking down the door.”

  Mrs. Payne purses her lips into a quick smile. “Jo?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I was just remembering the time Mrs. English put two playing cards on her blackjack hat, and the Anti-Gambling League threatened to boycott her. That was the best-selling hat of the season. Controversy boosts sales, and think of all the poor women who would benefit.”

  Noemi, standing quietly beside Mrs. Payne’s chair, nods thoughtfully. “It’s why people pay good money to see Tantrum, the baby-eating spider, at that Barnum’s Traveling Museum. If it’s just spiders they want, they could stare at their ceilings.”

  I laugh, and I swear Mrs. Payne does, too. She fans herself with the letter. “I’ve been curious about the Fiji mermaid myself, half monkey, half fish, though it’s all fiddle-faddle, of course. Animals just can’t mix like that.”

  Caroline noisily gets to her feet, maybe having a baby-eating tantrum of her own. “Rather like people,” she sneers, sweeping away.

  * * *

  —

  THE EVENING STREETCAR takes its sweet time arriving. A group of ladies cycles past us. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but the population of safety bicycles appears to be on the upswing. I smile, remembering the clever picture Nathan drew for Miss Sweetie’s column of a woman bicycling past a train. I filed a clipping in the B section of my dictionary.

  “I am glad to see you smiling,” remarks Old Gin, wearing the curious expression he gets when I play an unexpected piece in Chinese chess. “There is something different about you.”