The solicitor’s wife? I stop fidgeting. Perhaps our residence is still a secret.
Mrs. Bell gestures at her hat. “I was hoping you could do the same for me.”
Mrs. English clears her throat. “Actually, she is busy.” Her eyes flit to a familiar folder beside the cash register. “We’re taking inventory today.”
My jaw grinds. That tedious chore is typically done on Friday, but she’s trying to get her money’s worth out of my last day. Lizzie never gets the numbers to come out right.
“But,” she adds, “I would be happy to assist you myself.”
Mrs. Bell’s head pulls back a notch as she addresses Mrs. English. “You can do the Chinese knots, too?”
“Er, no.” The proprietress’s mouth draws in like a purse string being cinched. She had thought my knots looked bizarre, but didn’t complain when the solicitor’s wife paid her handsomely for the work.
“I would be happy to do it,” I cautiously pipe up. If Mrs. Bell has come to arrest me, where is the constable? The shock of my dismissal may have dulled my perception, but the woman’s behavior doesn’t strike me as someone who has smoked out a rat. In addition, the prospect of sticking Lizzie with the inventory makes me positively giddy.
“But the embellishment will take more than a day,” Mrs. English says with a meaningful jab of her eyebrow.
Mrs. Bell presses her palms together. “Oh, take your time. I don’t need it for a couple of weeks.”
“I can do it in a day.” I steer a brave smile toward the proprietress, hoping to unearth a pebble of pity in her stony heart.
Mrs. English fans herself. Waves of gardenia crash over us. “If you pay in cash, I would reconsider.”
“Ah. I might have something even better than cash.” Mrs. Bell fingers the edge of her hat. Her arthritic joints stretch the fabric of her well-worn gloves, and the pads of her fingers are starting to show through. Money is tight in that family. I hold my breath, caught between wondering what she could offer and worrying that there is more to this visit than meets the eye. “You see, my husband runs the Focus. In exchange for the work, we could give you a month of advertisement, the equivalent of three dollars. I am told the piece cost a dollar fifty. You’d be getting twice the value.”
“Front page,” Mrs. English briskly counters. “Plus assurances that you will not run competing advertisements.” When Mrs. Bell doesn’t answer, the proprietress pours on some charm. “Each piece that leaves our hands is a unique work of art. But don’t go to New York, or the Metropolitan Museum might pinch it from you.” She bats her fan at Mrs. Bell. No one butters a biscuit like Mrs. English.
Mrs. Bell’s genteel smile doesn’t falter, but her finger spools a loose thread on her sleeve. “A one-week exclusive is all I can offer.”
The two women continue to haggle, though Mrs. Bell’s eyes keep wandering to me. I untwist my arms and try not to look like I’m hiding something. Unlike the proprietress, whose speech modulates like a stage actress’s, the publisher’s wife’s voice is as steady as an oak table. It comforts me, even as I worry about the coincidence of her visit. I’m reminded of all those songs she sang to calm Nathan, songs that also soothed me, two years younger than him. Her tales of growing up on her parents’ sheep farm enthralled me in ways I never expected sheep could do. And here she stands before me, unaware—at least I hope—of how much she means to me.
Two young women enter the shop dressed in the latest pastels with touches of lace at the collars. Miss Melissa Lee Saltworth and Miss Linette Culpepper, whom I call Salt and Pepper, though never aloud, are the daughters of “merchant aristocrats.” Unlike the older cities of Savannah and Charleston, in Atlanta you don’t need a family name to boost your social standing. You can climb the ladder by sheer business muscle. Of course, muscles, business or otherwise, never made a difference to how high Chinese could climb.
“Good morning, Miss Saltworth, Miss Culpepper. How are you today?” Mrs. English calls over her shoulder into the back room, “Lizzie?”
Lizzie appears. “Why, good morning, Mrs. Bell. How is Nathan? I haven’t seen him delivering the papers at Father’s store lately.”
“He is well, Lizzie. The reporting keeps him very busy these days. I shall tell him you send your regards.”
Lizzie lingers at the counter, a dreamy smile upon her fair face. Mrs. English clears her throat loudly and cocks her head meaningfully toward Salt and Pepper. Lizzie takes languid steps toward the ladies as if the floor were full of horse patties. The building could be burning down and she would still take her time. Salt points to the top shelf, where we display the finest offerings, and with a wooden pole, Lizzie retrieves a straw hat in mauve with a cloud of tulle.
I bite my tongue in frustration. Mauve would definitely clash with Salt’s peachy skin.
“A two-week exclusive, then. I hope there will be nothing more,” Mrs. Bell adds with more force.
Mrs. English nods at me, a triumphant gleam in her eye. Mrs. Bell’s gaze also travels to me. I summon some poise, not wanting her to think me a heathen.
“Did you have a particular event in mind, or is it for everyday wear?” I ask, my tongue strangely thick.
“I would like something unique, a conversation starter. It’s for the horse race.”
Salt, who’s been admiring the straw hat in Lizzie’s hands, exclaims, “I’m fizzed about that race. We came as early as we could.”
Pepper twirls her parasol with such energy, she might have been divining the ground for water. “I hope your Mr. Q invites you soon.”
Salt blushes like a sunset against the white-blond clouds of her locks. According to Pepper, Mr. Quackenbach, the son of a financier who lost his fortune backing Confederate dollars, is “smitten” with Miss Saltworth and seeking her hand. The Quackenbach name still holds currency even if his bank account does not, and Mr. Q has the sort of dreamy face that could ripple even the sourest buttermilk. If I were as wealthy as Salt, the only thing I would give a gold digger like Mr. Q is my foot. Anyway, according to Old Gin, the real looker is his horse, a rare piebald with a white coat offset by a black mane and tail.
Mrs. Bell nods at the newcomers. “Actually, ladies are encouraged to ask the men. We printed the posters ourselves.”
“Yes, but no respectable woman would actually do that,” says Mrs. English.
Mrs. Bell looses a smile. “The proceeds benefit the Society for the Betterment of Women. Perhaps it is appropriate in this instance.”
Salt pushes the mauve hat back at Lizzie, to my relief. “But it’s so bold. What if the gentleman refused? I should be humiliated.”
“He won’t.” Pepper tucks a black ringlet back under her crushed-velvet capote, a hat I made just last week.