by Jane Goodger
“I suppose I should go then,” Genny said, though she couldn’t imagine what she would discover. Spoons were for soup, forks for meat, and everything went in your mouth. She had a sudden and strong urge to head back to her cabin, where she knew everything she needed to know. Although, she thought as she looked at her empty plate, if she went back, she surely would never get to eat another omelet like the one she’d just had.
It turned out that Mitch knew one of the restaurant’s waiters and they would be able to slip in and out of Delmonico’s easily. Even though they wouldn’t be dining, Genny wore her finest dress, a new dress she’d bought on their trip to get her sized for gloves. It was a pretty dove-gray dress with lace at the sleeves, but showed a bit more flesh than Genny was used to. Madeline assured her she was completely respectable, especially as she was going out for the evening. She thought she looked quite dashing and sophisticated, and she knew she looked pretty by the way Mitch stared at her when she emerged from her room.
“The dress is pretty, but don’t you need a shawl or something?” Mitch asked, his eyes darting briefly to her décolletage.
“It must be eighty-five degrees outside. I hardly think I need a shawl,” Genny said.
“She’s fine, Mitch. You’re simply used to seeing her in those high-necked monstrosities you bought in California. This is New York.”
Genny looked down at her rather unimpressive-looking chest and shrugged.
Delmonico’s was New York City’s premier restaurant. Located in a six-story triangular-shaped building on William Street, it had hosted such dignitaries as the Prince of Wales and Prince Arthur of Great Britain. Genny had never heard of either man, but Mitch explained they were great men from her parents’ home country and there was little doubt her grandparents knew them. It was amazing to Genny to think her grandparents likely knew, and were perhaps friends with, two princes. Princes and princesses lived in fairy tales, not in any world that Genny knew.
“I know I’ve joked about marrying a prince, but do you really think I might get to meet one someday?” Genny asked.
“A prince is just a man in funny-looking clothes,” Mitch grumbled.
Genny had wrinkled her nose at him. Ever since they’d arrived in New York, he’d been ornery. There was no hint of the man who’d looked in her eyes and told her he wanted to kiss her. No heated glances, no touching whatsoever; he hadn’t so much as offered her his arm since their arrival. It was almost as if that man didn’t exist and she was now keeping company with another man entirely. Genny supposed it was for the best. It would be far easier to say good-bye to New York Mitch than the one she’d spent time with on the trail and on the train. But she missed him and wished he’d kiss her at least one more time before she said good-bye. She couldn’t help remembering every moment of their too-brief kisses, the way his mouth was somehow both soft and hard, the way he breathed when he lost a bit of control, the low rumble in his chest that she felt down to her toes.
Now, he was simply a man doing his duty—and a duty he didn’t seem to be enjoying very much. She’d gone to the glove-maker and dressmaker with his mother while he went in search of old friends he hadn’t seen in years and sent a telegraph to her grandparents to let them know she was alive and well and coming to see them.
As they made their way south toward William Street in a horsecar, Genny sat while Mitch stood, clutching a metal bar for stability. The car was not as crowded in the evening, but nearly every seat was taken. The sun was still up, but the sky was beginning to take on a late evening summer glow and the buildings kept them in the shadows most of the time. Mitch pulled the line that told the driver to stop, and they and several others stood to make their way off the car. Mitch went first, turning to hold up his hand so that she could safely descend. When her hand touched his, a shiver went through her so unexpectedly, she nearly stumbled.
“You should have worn a shawl,” he said darkly, looking down the street.
“I’m not cold.”
He grunted something under his breath and started off down the street, not bothering to see if she was following. She had half a mind to stay put, but she lifted her skirts and followed him, staring daggers at his back.
They walked for a time until they reached the front of the restaurant, where gleaming carriages pulled up and deposited the people from within. Genny had never in her memory seen such finery. The men all wore top hats, the women gowns of such intricacy, it was hard to believe they were made by human hands. Even the horses pulling the carriages wore fancy clothes, and Genny giggled at one particular pair of matching roans who were bedecked with large red plumes. Men in livery stood at attention outside the restaurant and bowed and opened the doors, ushering in the diners.
“The women look like they’re floating,” Genny said, watching with some awe as a woman about her age drifted from the carriage to the door effortlessly, almost as if she were being smoothly rolled through the door. For the first time, Genny felt a small niggle of worry. She was not like these women. Certainly, if she had a pretty dress and her hair had been done up, she could look like them. But she couldn’t walk like them. Her skin wasn’t white and smooth as porcelain. She’d spent years in the sun, and she had a sharp tan line at her neck. It had faded over the last few weeks, but it was still there, as was the line on her forearm where she’d rolled her sleeves up. She put a hand to her neck as if she might feel the telltale tan line there. These women with their bared arms had no lines, nothing but smooth, white flesh unmarred by the sun or scars. They all wore gloves, she saw, rubbing her own ungloved hands together and hoping no one noticed.
“They don’t seem real,” Genny whispered.
“They’re not.”
She looked up to see whether Mitch was smiling, but he looked angry, though Genny wasn’t certain what was causing that expression. She started walking toward the entrance, but Mitch stopped her with a small touch to her arm.
“Come on. We have to go in at the back.”
“Oh. Of course.”
She followed Mitch around the building until they reached a high wooden fence with a locked gate. He knocked three times, and the gate swung open, revealing a dashing young man, his hair parted sharply in the middle and slicked back. He wore a vivid white shirt beneath a jacket and a large white apron that hung nearly to his well-shined shoes, the uniform of the waiters at Delmonico’s.
“You owe me one, Mitch,” the man said.
“I know, I know. We’ll just stay for a bit. This here is Genny. Genny, Jason. He’s a top waiter here and he’s doing us a big favor, letting us in.”
Genny furrowed her brow. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” she said uncertainly.
“It’ll be fine if you stay where I put you and don’t wander off,” Jason explained. “If the guests see you and complain, you’ll be booted out before you can say you’re sorry.”
Mitch smiled down at her, a smile she knew was meant to relax her but did the opposite. “I really think this is the best way for you to learn. Lord knows I can’t teach you anything about proper manners.”
Was there really so much about the way rich people ate that was different from how she did? Genny’s father had always made an effort to teach her manners, even when it was just the two of them. They sat for dinner, said grace, and ate. She knew not to put her elbows on the table or eat with her fingers. And even though the two of them had on more than one occasion broken the rule about not wiping their plates with a thick chunk of bread, she knew not to do that in a restaurant. Mitch and his mother must think she was going to belch or throw food, for goodness’ sake.
Jason led the two of them past a large garbage bin, causing several rats to scurry away, their little feet sounding overly loud in the alleyway and Genny pushed down a shiver. She didn’t mind woodland creatures, the chickarees and bobcats, but rats with their long, naked tails made her skin crawl. The back door led to a hall, past a large kitchen where Genny caught a glimpse of young men wearing all white rushing about as if
they were in a mad race. The smells that emanated from the cavernous room were heavenly, and even though Genny had already eaten, she wished she could sample some of the fare.
Jason stopped at a pair of swinging doors and looked through one of the small round windows. He jerked his head so the pair of them would follow him through the doors that led out into one of the restaurant’s larger dining rooms.
“Here. If you don’t wander about, no one should be the wiser.” He’d led them to a half wall in front of which were several potted plants the likes of which Genny had never seen. Shiny green leaves larger than her head sprang from thick yellow-green stems. Genny peered through the leaves to see several diners quite close. She almost giggled and clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Genny, you stay here. I want to show Mitch our new card room. I’m in charge of a private room that won’t have diners until nine and I’ve already gotten the room ready, so I have some time. You should be fine as long as you don’t—”
“—wander about?” Genny said, completing his sentence.
Jason grinned, saying, “I just don’t want you to get in trouble. Because if you do, I’ve never seen you before in my life. Understood?”
“Understood,” she said.
“You’ll be all right?” Mitch asked, which Genny found slightly patronizing. Why were they acting as if she was a child? She’d survived a winter alone in the wilderness; surely she could handle hiding behind a strange plant and watching people eat.
“As rain.”
When Mitch gave her a puzzled look, she said, “Right as rain. It’s an expression my father used to use all the time.”
“Oh. I’ll be back momentarily.” He winked. “Don’t wander.”
Genny pretended to see something interesting and started to walk away, just to be contrary. Mitch wasn’t particularly amused by her jest, so she wrinkled her nose and shooed him away.
When they’d gone, she turned her attention to the diners. Though the room was nearly filled, she could hear only a low murmur of voices and the soft clinking of cutlery on china. The round tables were covered with white tablecloths and glittering china and glassware. And the smells; she thanked goodness she wasn’t hungry.
Not ten feet from her, two couples, a man and woman with silver hair and a younger pair were escorted to a table so close, Genny stopped breathing momentarily. If she’d wanted to, she could have reached out and touched the older woman’s shoulder. As if choreographed, the men pulled out the women’s chairs, and the two women sat, then drew off their gloves and placed them on their laps, covering the gloves with a napkin. Genny concentrated on the women, watching what they did, how they acted, thinking this was likely a waste of time. But within a few minutes, she began to get a sick feeling in her stomach, as if she were watching a complicated dance that she would be asked to replicate, knowing she would never be able to do so.
A waiter took their orders and returned quickly with some sort of soup. The women sat ramrod straight, taking delicate sips, bringing the spoon up to their mouths without bending their heads. And they weren’t really sipping. They were pouring tiny portions into their mouths. Genny thought back on all the times she’d sat at the dinner table with her father and shoved the entire spoon into her mouth as she leaned over the bowl, and she could feel herself grow hot with something she had no name for.
To the left of their plates were five forks in five different sizes, to the right, three knives and various spoons. Everyone seemed to know which utensil was used for what, as if they were born knowing what they were. Genny watched, fascinated, as the girl, who appeared to be younger than Genny, delicately buttered her bread then took tiny bits of it between her thumb and forefinger and put it into her mouth. It seemed to take forever for her to chew the bread, and Genny wondered if it were particularly tough. It almost seemed to Genny that the young woman was counting out the number of chews each mouthful got. Tiny bite, twenty chews. Pause. Tiny bite, twenty chews. And when she spoke, she lay down whatever was in her hand, as if talking and holding utensils simultaneously was too difficult a task to master.
It was fascinating to watch her eat her dinner without ever bending her head to look at her plate. How on earth did she know what she was putting into her mouth if she didn’t see what was on it?
As each course was completed, the four laid the utensil they’d held across the plate, the useful end of the tool facing right. Every diner did the same thing at about the same time. Then, following a course, they all lifted their water goblets and took a small sip. Genny was getting thirsty just watching them.
If this was how her grandparents ate a meal, she was doomed to disappoint them. “Manners separate the classes,” Madeline had said, and Genny hadn’t truly known what she meant. “If you’re going to make a smooth transition into the highest levels of British society, you’re going to at least try to fool them, my dear. It’s all acting.”
Genny couldn’t help but think back on all the meals she’d had with Mitch, all the mistakes she had apparently been making. It was not only the way she ate, it was the way she saw the world, how she walked and talked and laughed. No one in this dining room was laughing. They smiled, or if a sound came out, it was quickly stifled with a pristine and starched napkin. When one man did laugh loudly, nearly every head turned, and every face held an expression of annoyance. Just thinking of sitting with her back that straight for so long was making her spine ache.
She was going to be a disappointment to her grandparents, the people who had written such heart-breaking letters. They had no idea of how she’d grown up, of how she could kill a snake, gut it, and eat it and think it was a grand meal. She could cut firewood and she had the callouses to prove it. They were fading, her hands growing softer, but her insides would never be soft. She’d never forget what it felt like not to eat for days simply because she hadn’t killed something for her table. She’d been proud of what she’d done—and still was. But the gap between who she was and the girl she suspected her grandparents would expect was far wider than she’d realized. She’d imagined throwing herself into their arms, laughing with delight, but if her grandparents were like these people, she wondered if they’d even crack a smile.
The girl who sat at the dining table, with her intricately coiffed hair and a gown of the prettiest blue Genny had ever seen, was as foreign a creature to her as these strange-looking plants that were hiding her. The girl likely could play the piano and recite poetry, and no doubt had beautiful penmanship. That girl could easily enter the world of her grandparents.
Soft footsteps coming toward Genny startled her from her turbulent thoughts. She looked to her right to see a woman coming toward her, her dress clearly marking her as a guest.
“You, there. Where might I find the powder room?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not familiar with this restaurant.”
The woman looked her up and down, obviously trying to assess who she was. “Are you not a servant here?”
“No, ma’am,” Genny said, looking around for Mitch.
The woman stared at her a long moment, then turned and left Genny with her heart pounding madly in her chest. She didn’t want Jason to lose his job for letting her in. Where was Mitch? The two of them had been gone for nearly a half hour. They’d told her to stay put, but Genny thought it would be best to leave the way she’d come in and was about to do so when a man, dressed in a fancy suit, walked quickly up to her.
“You do not belong here,” he said, looking her up and down with obvious distaste. “Leave immediately or I shall call the police.”
“I’m sorry, I . . . I was just watching people eat.”
“And hoping to attract a customer, no doubt.”
“A customer?” She had no idea what the man could mean.
“Don’t play dumb with me, miss,” the man said, looking pointedly at her chest.
Genny had a terrible feeling the man thought she was a soiled dove. “No, you’re mistaken. I was just—”
He opened the door and pushed her roughly out, leaving Genny in the darkened alley, listening to the rustling sound of rats.
Hot tears filled her eyes as the man slammed the door shut. Never in her life had she been made to feel such humiliation. It was so beyond her experience, she was stunned. She looked down at the dress she’d thought was so pretty, and realized it was cheaply made and cut in a way that, while flattering, perhaps revealed too much of her shape. She’d thought her breasts were too visible, but Mitch’s mother had explained it was quite respectable. Now she felt almost . . . dirty.
Genny pressed her back against the rough brick of the building, feeling angry and hurt. Where was Mitch? What was taking so long? She pressed the heel of her hands against her eyes to stop her silly tears, but they came anyway.
Finally, the door swung open and there he was, all anger and frustration. “Genny, we told you—.” He stopped as if someone had placed a gag on his mouth. “What happened, darlin’?”
“Oh, Mitch,” Genny said, and threw herself into his arms, letting herself cry against his warm jacket. He brought one hand to the back of her head and the other around her shoulders, pressing her close. “It was awful. A man threw me out. He thought I was a . . . a . . .” she said between hiccuppy sobs. “And the way he looked at me, it was as if I were not quite human. I thought this was a pretty dress, but it’s not. It makes me look cheap, and my grandparents are going to think I look like a pro . . . pro . . . prostitute,” she wailed.
She felt him chuckle and she made a fist and hit him softly on his chest. “They’re not going to think you’re a prostitute, darlin’. There’s more good in your pinky than in most women’s whole bodies. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
She pulled back, looking up at him through tear-blurred eyes. “No, it was good that you brought me. I’m thankful you did. I can’t imagine if I had shown up at my grandparents’ door looking like this, thinking I looked p . . . pretty when I really look like a—”
