The Downstairs Girl

by Stacey Lee

  He shakes his head. “If I don’t feel the hurt, I wonder if I’m alive.”

  “Then you must feel very alive.”

  His forehead crimps. “In life, there will be many races. Not all must be run. Sweet Potato will not be disappointed if she misses this one.”

  Short of using the Paynes’ family telephone, I can’t imagine how our mare managed to convey that. “As it turns out, Billy has agreed to return the bottle if Sweet Potato can cross the line before Thief.”

  He makes a noise that’s halfway between a grumble and a sigh. To my surprise, he doesn’t press me for details. “Thief has good legs.” He licks his dry lips. “But it takes a good heart to win a race.”

  Like his. I give him a wide smile. “So, you really thought Sweet Potato could beat Ameer?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But she told me she had to try.” His good eye winks and I resist the urge to hug him. His face goes serious again. “The Bells are good people. But staying will change the direction of the wind here. Winds can be . . . scandalous.”

  “Are you worried about the Focus? I would continue using a pseudonym. No one need know.”

  “Wasn’t talking about pseudonym.” His eyes drift toward the door, where the sound of Nathan’s casual whistling drifts in.

  I sip from his water, suddenly parched myself. He’s right. Even if Nathan and I managed to carve a spot for ourselves in Atlanta, it would be a secret isle like Avalon, and if anyone ever found out, the publisher could be ruined.

  Old Gin studies the double tents formed by his feet and then shrugs. “The river travels fastest around the stones. But sometimes, the stones must be faced head-on. Who knows? With enough momentum, a path may clear, hm?”

  “Do you think we should accept the Bells’ offer?”

  “I think you are good at making your own rules.”

  * * *

  —

  NATHAN WALKS IN a tight square around the Bells’ reception area, where Bear, his mother, and I stand, his Modern Horse Racing book open before him. “I would say good luck, but according to the book, jockeys are particular about those things. I could give you a lucky penny or a rock from my collection. Scratch that, I don’t have a collection—”

  “I know about the collection.”

  He gives me a sheepish grin. Dressed in a linen jacket, whipcord trousers, and wingtips, he could easily be one of the young men girding themselves for the battle for the debutantes. Only his insouciant Homburg hat marks him as an outlier. The daisies he wrapped with lace for Lizzie are still sprightly despite the humidity. I feel myself grimacing and force my thoughts to other avenues.

  My gaze drifts toward Old Gin’s room, where he is dozing. His skin felt too warm when I left, and his eye had begun to bleed again. What if he takes a turn for the worse while I am away? I could never forgive myself.

  Mrs. Bell hands me Old Gin’s cap, which she washed and brushed clean. “Don’t worry. Your grandfather will be in good hands.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” I square Old Gin’s cap on my head and nod to Nathan. “See you at the race.” Then I slip out. Another battle requires my attention.

  * * *

  —

  THE VIOLIN BOOTS put an unfamiliar elegance in my step as I lead Sweet Potato into Piedmont Park. Thanks to Caroline’s habit of wearing her shoes hard, the boots are comfortably broken in, and I may never take them off.

  It is hard not to stare at all the finely dressed couples in their open-air carriages and pleasure wagons. The hats alone are dizzying. Tall satins with crushed-velvet bows, cake hats with their layers of ribbons, and of course, Miss Sweetie hats in fresh colors like strawberry and lemon. Mrs. English must be pouring herself a tall coca cordial right about now.

  There are also a number of black faces in the crowd. The Paynes, not the Gentlemen’s Driving Club, make the rules today, and as long as the colored can pay the fee, Mrs. Payne will not turn away donations to her charity.

  People line up at an awning painted with the word BETS, parasols open. Nearby, a contingent of women with marigold sashes has drawn the attention of a crowd. “Votes! For! Women!” Mrs. Bullis pumps her fist with each word, shaking her half of the banner. I can’t help noticing that the horse’s backside looks more professionally stitched than the front half.

  “That’s our cheering gallery,” I tell Sweet Potato, who is nibbling the cap off my head.

  The crowd parts, and the sight of another marching group pulls the stuffing right out of me. These marchers wear sashes of violet blue and are singing. A woman on a bicycle leads the charge: Noemi. Behind her, Rose and Mary carry a white banner stitched with the words ATLANTA BLUEBELLS: VOTES FOR ALL WOMEN. Embroidered around the banner are all manner of colorful flowers, not just bluebells.

  The Atlanta Suffragists’ chant falls off, and Mrs. Bullis’s teapot face looks like it’s gathering steam.

  Noemi pedals up to me and then stands, with August wedged under her. A new basket is strapped to the handlebars, lined with a picnic blanket. On her straw hat, her Farney the Falcon knot pins down a sprig of bluebells.

  “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

  She grins. “You got a plan for getting around the track?”

  After finishing his book on horse racing, Nathan discussed strategy with me, but none of it stuck. “Once the bell rings, go as fast as I can go.” I just have to beat one horse today. Perhaps I can keep my seat simply by focusing on Thief. I’ve never seen the piebald run at full steam, though I imagine he can burn up a track, with every line of his sleek and tapered body suggesting motion.

  Noemi laughs, and her eyes drift beyond my shoulder. “Mr. Buxbaum said Robby could stay on as clerk.”

  I let out a squeal, wondering if “The Custom-ary” had anything to do with his decision. “Give him my congratulations.”

  “Give them yourself.”

  Robby strides up, dapper in his Sunday suit of brushed cotton. “Hello, Jo!”

  “Hello yourself. I hear I owe you some teeth rinse.”

  “How about we toast with it after you cross the line? We’re real proud of you.”

  Noemi nods. “Just moving down that road is a victory.”

  Robby leans in, his laughing eyes glinty. “But bring home the big fish, okay?” He waves a ticket at me. “I got a bet on Sunday Surprise. But I also got one on you.” He winks.

  The Atlanta Suffragists have again started up their battle cry, drowning out the Bluebells’ singing. Mrs. Bullis is frowning at us, and I give her a little wave that she does not return. She hands her part of the banner to another woman and stalks over. “You.” She crooks her pinky at Noemi. “Your group is making us into a spectacle. And you.” The pinky switches to me. “You arranged this to spite me.” She grimaces at the sight of Sweet Potato, drooling on my head.

  “I wish I had that much influence, ma’am.” I drape my arm around Sweet Potato’s neck. “Rest assured, my mare and I will do our best.”

  “Mare?” Her gaze slides under Sweet Potato. “Oh, good gullywash. We will be laughingstocks!” Her face crumples, and I feel myself softening, curse my wax heart.

  “If you believe that females are equal to males, then have faith, ma’am.”

  Her face unwrinkles, and she gusts out an indignant “Well!” Then she storms back to her suffragists, hissing to the Bluebells as she passes, “Will you please hush?”

  The Bluebells break off their song. Noemi sighs. “I better move the troops, before they show us the boot. But first, I made you something to help you get past Thief.” From her pocket, she pulls something wrapped in wax paper.

  “A cookie?” I reach for it, but she pulls it away.

  “Not you.” She holds it to Sweet Potato, who snatches it right up, wax paper and all. “It’s got my secret ingredient. Never hurts to try.” She grins and all the bluebells on her hat grin a
long.

  “Do you have an extra sash?”

  “No, but you can have mine.” She whips it off, then watches as I tie it around my waist. Something airy and hopeful wings around her face. “Good luck, sister.”

  Sprinting races have already begun to warm up the crowd for the main event. A sign with the word CONTESTANTS points toward the stables at the far end of the grandstand. The word chases a chill up and down my spine.

  I ignore the stares, as I have done all my life. The noise of the attendees collects in my ears, making my heart pound like Etta Rae is whacking it with her rug-beater hands.

  A gray horse barrels past me, tossing its anvil of a head and snapping its jaws. A purple saddle pad emblazoned with the number 4 wraps the horse’s middle. Where do I get one of those numbers? Perhaps this is where having a team helps.

  The grandstand is beginning to fill. There must be at least five hundred people there already, watching the sprint races, with room for five hundred more. Next to the grandstand, more people amass under a magnolia tree, on which is nailed a sign, COLORED. There are no chairs, but some folks have brought picnic blankets to set on the ground. I picture Old Gin standing under that tree, not weak and battered, but as he used to look, balanced and whole. His shabby clothes still hang neatly, and he faces the world with serenity, as if he had landed right on the spot he was supposed to land. He waves his flag at me, onward.

  Behind a line of trees, a double strip of stables is populated by a grunting, noisy mass of men clustered around horses. The gray anvil that passed us earlier rears up on its hindquarters, and its jockey, a man with a weathered face, yells curses. Old Gin never cursed at a horse. Horses only give, never take, and should be treated with respect. Another horse screams, and I recognize it as the voice of a certain Arabian, Ameer. Johnny Fortune rides him into the arena, looking splendid in gold silks, a riding crop under his arm. I do not see Thief.

  Sweet Potato and I stride up to an official-looking man with a red bowler to match his bright bulb of a nose. “Good morning, sir. I am Jo Kuan, and this is Sweet Potato. We are here to check in for the race.”

  “You? There are only twelve animals in this race, and certainly no females.” He spits out that last word as if it were a seed that had gotten stuck in his teeth.

  “But—could you please check again?” I eye the ledger he clasps to his velvet cutaway. “Mrs. Payne added us to the roster herself.” At least, she said she did. Don’t let me down again. Not today.

  “I have the roster memorized. Twelve horses, all checked in already. Now, move along, or I shall call security.”

  “But I—but we—”

  A tailored morning suit struts up on shiny sable boots. “There you are, Miss Kuan. We’ve been waiting for you. Have you been giving our last jock a hard time, Mr. Thorne?”

  Merritt Payne twists one handle of his three-forty-five mustache and looks down his aristocratic nose at the official.

  Mr. Thorne flips through the pages of his ledger, nearly dropping it in his agitation. “Er, sorry, Mr. Payne. I was sure I knew all of the contestants. Twelve, I thought it was—”

  “Please.” Merritt wiggles his fingers. “Now you are wasting our time. Come, Miss Kuan, Sweet Potato. Your stable boy is waiting, and they will be calling for line shortly.”

  Forty-Three

  Dear Miss Sweetie,

  I have three small children, and my life is full from sunup to sundown with the care of them. But though I love them dearly, I am being driven to the nuthouse by their quarreling. How do I get them to stop?

  Mrs. Nut

  Dear Mrs. Nut,

  Redirect their energy toward a common goal, like cultivating a garden, which can bear fruit in more than one way. Oxen untethered will trample the field, but yoked together, they can plow it.

  Yours truly,

  Miss Sweetie

  * * *

  —

  Merritt leads us through the noisy morass of man, beast, sweat, and fear. And the race hasn’t even begun. “Thorne is an ass.”

  “Thank you. I’m not sure what I would’ve done.”

  He gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Carried on, as you always do, Jo.”

  I try to read his face for signs that he knows about our true relationship, but there is only the sunset of his smile, a glassy look to the blue-gray eyes inherited from his mother, and a slight pull to his brow, as if snagged by too many thoughts. I mourn the brother that could’ve been, somehow feeling a loss that never happened.

  I’m surprised to find little Joseph Porter standing in his military stance when Merritt and I walk up, his flat cap extra sharp.

  “Joseph will lead your horse to the line when it’s time. Good luck, Jo. If races were won on gumption and not speed, you would have my wager.” He bows, and Merritt Payne carries himself away.

  “Good morning, Joseph. At ease. I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “You neither. Old Gin gave me ten cents to attend him.”

  “He isn’t feeling well. I’m subbing in.”

  Moving briskly, Joseph leads Sweet Potato to a watering trough. As she slakes her thirst, he unfastens her saddle. He shakes out a satin horse pad, which matches exactly the Suffragists’ marigold banner, stitched with the number 13. “Sorry about the number, but if it helps, Mama says thirteen isn’t unlucky if you spit on it, and I done that for you.” He shows me the wet spot right between the 1 and 3.

  “Why, thank you.”

  “But don’t hold your breath, because you’ll still have the most distance to cover on the outside lane.”

  The odds rocket away, and my spine contracts like a squeezed concertina. I only hope that Thief is number 12. “Anything else I should know?”

  “Stay away from Four and Six. Their riders don’t have a good look on them. They got hayseed eyes, like they’re common and ain’t above taking what’s not theirs.”

  Number 4’s the anvil horse. Joseph jerks his head toward 6, a chestnut whose checker-sleeved jockey stands with his back partly turned toward me, staring up at a tree. Water begins trickling down the trunk, and I quickly avert my eyes.

  I certainly hope he remembers to thank the tree when he’s done. Threading through the mass, I size up the competition, though I’m really just looking for the piebald with its distinctive white hull and black fringe and rudder. Men scowl when they see me, or laugh outright, and I’m not sure which is worse. One just turns up his nose, staring right through me. Clearly, I am no threat to them, but perhaps that is an advantage. The biggest threats are the ones we fail to acknowledge.

  A familiar chiseled profile in a swashbuckler hat and charcoal cutaway emerges from a stable. I should be focusing on the horse he leads, but Mr. Q commands attention in a way Billy Riggs could never hope to replicate, not even with his showy wardrobe or manners. Mr. Q walks with a handsome gait that seems practiced, shoulders rolled back, head held high for viewing. His olive complexion seems carved from soap, with sideburns that must have been shaped with a ruler. The only flaw is a twist to his pillowy lips that, like a scratch in the mirror, isn’t visible from all angles. But once you know it’s there, it is hard to forget.

  Something sour coats my tongue. We both got here through a personal connection, but mine didn’t cost a human heart—specifically, Caroline’s. He was just using her to get his horse in the race.

  The number 9 is stitched to Thief’s saddle blanket. He is not number 12 as I’d hoped, but at least he is not number 1. Any relief I feel evaporates when a runt of a man in green silks takes the horse by the bridle. It’s the leprechaun who leered at me from the porch of Billy Riggs’s cathouse. His brazen gaze gropes mine, recognizing me, too. So, this is the man Billy ejected for being too rough on women. Mean comes in all sizes, and getting up on a horse doesn’t change that one bit.

  I hurry back to Joseph and Sweet Potato, my collar feelin
g sticky. Any confidence I felt when I left Old Gin drains from my violin boots into the dry earth.

  Someone calls, “Line!” and the chaos of beast and man begins to slowly organize. Jockeys mount up, and grooms take positions at the bridle. Companion ponies calm nerves on the way to the track. I step up on Sweet Potato, and her solid warmth calms my own bucking heart.

  A colored jockey with an easy smile brings his muscular roan up to us. “Ben Abner, and this is Sunday Surprise.” He speaks like he has a train to catch. “Mr. Buxbaum told me to say hello. It’s a fast track today, but there are a couple sticky parts. Keep those horseshoes on, and don’t let them box you in.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Abner, and thank you, I will,” I respond as if I have any idea what he’s talking about.

  He tugs the brim of his cap and clicks his tongue.

  Joseph watches the pair trot off, his mouth ajar. “Sunday’s the one I’d bet on. He’s number two, a good spot. The number-two lane wins most often.” Sweet Potato tries to knock off Joseph’s cap, but he ducks. “No offense, girl.” Taking her by the halter, he leads us to the back of the line. The foul leprechaun swivels on Thief’s saddle and shows me an overbite so severe, he could probably slide pecans into his mouth without opening it. I pretend to ignore him.

  A big horse like Thief will roll like a boulder off a slope. Once he gets going, there will be no stopping his momentum. We will need to break from the start as fast as possible. Of course, that’s easier said than done, especially with no time to train Sweet Potato. Then again, Old Gin has been training her. Perhaps she already knows how to blow from the line.

  We emerge from the trees, a parade of bright silks and clinking harnesses. The grandstand seems to vibrate with all the people cheering, waving their flags and hats, despite the oppressive humidity. I shield my eyes against the glare. A clot of clouds traps the sun, and more seem to be rolling in from all sides.