glasses from her nose, stowing them within arm’s reach. Then she slid the playbill free, pulled the covers up to Miss Amelia’s chin, and blew out the lamp, leaving the playbill beside her glasses.
Tiptoeing from the room, Lettie repeated the same procedure when she found Miss Alma dozing in bed with a tattered copy of Poe’s poems resting against her chest.
Finally, she moved to Natalie’s room. She had already knocked on the door before she realized that Silas Gruber was in his wife’s room, and the two were arguing.
“…Is he, Natalie?”
“Go to bed, Silas. Your bed.”
The voices stopped and there was a long silence before the door opened. Though his cheeks flooded with a ruddy glow, Silas Gruber nodded politely at Lettie, then brushed past her, intent upon his own room down the hall.
Lettie stood for a moment in awkward silence before stepping into the doorway. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”
Natalie merely waved her apology aside as if the interruption had been of no importance. “If you’d be so kind as to place my tea on the bureau there,” she instructed from where she sat at her dressing table. One by one, she removed the elaborate switches from her coiffure and lay the swathes of hair in front of her so that they resembled a bizarre collection of horsetails. “I hope I didn’t cause you too much trouble.”
Lettie didn’t answer. She merely hoped her mother wouldn’t find out about this and scold her for waiting on the boarders. “You’re not a servant, Letitia Mae. You provide the boarders with a room, hot meals, and clean laundry. The rest is their own responsibility.”
Lettie set the pot of tea on the bureau beside a crisp linen napkin and delicate cup that Natalie herself had provided. Her lips tilted in wry amusement. Natalie Gruber always drank her tea from a “dressy” cup, always sat in a “delicate” chair, always walked on the “feminine” side of the boardwalk, far from the mud and manure. And that was why Lettie often found herself envying the other woman with an intensity that bordered on dislike. Natalie was always so… perfect. She ate right, she dressed right, she talked right. She even looked right, for heaven’s sake, with dark eyes and black hair that curled into natural ringlets.
Frankly, Lettie had never developed a taste for tea, she sat in whatever chair was available, and usually found herself charging down any old side of the boardwalk she pleased in a most unladylike gait. And her hair and eyes were brown. Just brown—not chestnut, not walnut, not mahogany. They were just plain brown.
“You should have come tonight, Lettie.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It was wonderful. Very stimulating.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“I never tire of hearing a reading of poetry, do you?”
Once again, Lettie felt a stab of frustration and anger. She’d never been to a poetry reading. But since she couldn’t tell Natalie that fact, she merely smiled in a vague way.
“It’s too bad about the trouble in Carlton.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t suppose the thief would ever come here, to Madison.”
Lettie’s gaze locked briefly with Natalie’s in the mirror, then bounced away again. “I would hope not,” she answered carefully, fighting the urge to peer up at the ceiling. Since Lettie’s room was in the garret, her bed would be situated just about…
Right over Natalie’s head.
“So would I.”
“Mmm?” Lettie jerked her attention back with some difficulty.
“I said, I would hope that a thief like that wouldn’t come to Madison,” Natalie repeated. She stood up, and the delicate lawn and lace wrapper she wore swirled about tiny feet encased in down-edged slippers. “With my husband serving as director of the new bank here in Madison and all, I would hope the thief would never come to rob him.”
Lettie gazed at Natalie with wide eyes, suddenly feeling cold all over. She wasn’t sure if Natalie was warning her, or simply talking off
Tiptoeing from the room, Lettie repeated the same procedure when she found Miss Alma dozing in bed with a tattered copy of Poe’s poems resting against her chest.
Finally, she moved to Natalie’s room. She had already knocked on the door before she realized that Silas Gruber was in his wife’s room, and the two were arguing.
“…Is he, Natalie?”
“Go to bed, Silas. Your bed.”
The voices stopped and there was a long silence before the door opened. Though his cheeks flooded with a ruddy glow, Silas Gruber nodded politely at Lettie, then brushed past her, intent upon his own room down the hall.
Lettie stood for a moment in awkward silence before stepping into the doorway. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”
Natalie merely waved her apology aside as if the interruption had been of no importance. “If you’d be so kind as to place my tea on the bureau there,” she instructed from where she sat at her dressing table. One by one, she removed the elaborate switches from her coiffure and lay the swathes of hair in front of her so that they resembled a bizarre collection of horsetails. “I hope I didn’t cause you too much trouble.”
Lettie didn’t answer. She merely hoped her mother wouldn’t find out about this and scold her for waiting on the boarders. “You’re not a servant, Letitia Mae. You provide the boarders with a room, hot meals, and clean laundry. The rest is their own responsibility.”
Lettie set the pot of tea on the bureau beside a crisp linen napkin and delicate cup that Natalie herself had provided. Her lips tilted in wry amusement. Natalie Gruber always drank her tea from a “dressy” cup, always sat in a “delicate” chair, always walked on the “feminine” side of the boardwalk, far from the mud and manure. And that was why Lettie often found herself envying the other woman with an intensity that bordered on dislike. Natalie was always so… perfect. She ate right, she dressed right, she talked right. She even looked right, for heaven’s sake, with dark eyes and black hair that curled into natural ringlets.
Frankly, Lettie had never developed a taste for tea, she sat in whatever chair was available, and usually found herself charging down any old side of the boardwalk she pleased in a most unladylike gait. And her hair and eyes were brown. Just brown—not chestnut, not walnut, not mahogany. They were just plain brown.
“You should have come tonight, Lettie.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It was wonderful. Very stimulating.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“I never tire of hearing a reading of poetry, do you?”
Once again, Lettie felt a stab of frustration and anger. She’d never been to a poetry reading. But since she couldn’t tell Natalie that fact, she merely smiled in a vague way.
“It’s too bad about the trouble in Carlton.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t suppose the thief would ever come here, to Madison.”
Lettie’s gaze locked briefly with Natalie’s in the mirror, then bounced away again. “I would hope not,” she answered carefully, fighting the urge to peer up at the ceiling. Since Lettie’s room was in the garret, her bed would be situated just about…
Right over Natalie’s head.
“So would I.”
“Mmm?” Lettie jerked her attention back with some difficulty.
“I said, I would hope that a thief like that wouldn’t come to Madison,” Natalie repeated. She stood up, and the delicate lawn and lace wrapper she wore swirled about tiny feet encased in down-edged slippers. “With my husband serving as director of the new bank here in Madison and all, I would hope the thief would never come to rob him.”
Lettie gazed at Natalie with wide eyes, suddenly feeling cold all over. She wasn’t sure if Natalie was warning her, or simply talking off
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