The Other Typist by Suzanne Rindell Page B

clean, and they never had to scold me about my chores or scrub at my face with the rough, wetted cloth of a washrag.
    It was there at the orphanage that I learned that to be plain was a sign of superior virtue. Lucky for me I discovered I had a special talent for plainness. I had not been cursed at birth with any innately remarkable talents or features, so maintaining this lack was simply a matter of never cultivating them. I made a great study of plainness, and this was how I won many of the nuns over. As the years passed, I took care to absorb the criteria that informed their judgment. According to them, a plain girl would not grow up to be a vain girl, and thus would be forever safe from at least one of the seven deadly sins. A plain girl required very little fuss to be made over her, and was just as happy to make polite conversation as she was to extract a book from the pockets of her skirt and read quietly to herself. A plain girl was in little danger of getting romantic ideas in her head—or worse still, inadvertently stirring up romantic ideas in the heads of her male counterparts—and thereby causing a scandal.
If there
’
s one thing we
’
re sure of about you, Rose, it
’
s that you
’
ll never disgrace us by preening indiscreetly before the milkman,
they would say in approving voices.
    The milkman who delivered our daily milk was a jolly bear of a man whose eyes twinkled with dark mischief as he heaped flattery on every girl at the orphanage who crossed his path, no matter her age or status. He heaped flattery on every girl, that is, except for me. Whenever it was my turn to receive the milk, his wide grin froze into a rather flat, stiff line as I threw open the door, and the curt exchange between us was polite enough, but unmistakably all business. I overheard one of the other girls ask him why it was he spared me so thoroughly from his many winks and compliments.
There
’
s something not right about that one,
he diagnosed, shaking his head.
Can
’
t put my finger on it exactly, but it
’
s like the milk: Even when it
’
s not yet spoiled, you just know when it
’
s getting ready to go off
. To those of a more sensitive disposition, this would’ve caused great offense. But, of course, hearing this comment didn’t upset me in the least, as only an utter ninny would align her personal conduct with the ideals of a milkman. At the tender age of ten I already had the wherewithal to intuit my own mental and moral superiority.
    The nuns seemed to intuit it as well. For a couple of years they were thoughtful enough to send me to work as a maid during the afternoons for the elderly wife of a very wealthy Catholic businessman. The idea was I would learn manners and diligence, while also learning how a proper lady lived. My employer (I use this term rather loosely, as I was not actually paid an income—although it must be said the orphanage did benefit from a few extra donations during those years) was a silver-haired, thin-lipped woman whose Arcadian ancestors had long ago followed the Saint Lawrence River out of the French colonies and into the British ones, until one day they woke up and found the world around them had changed and transformed itself into a newfangled thing called America. All roads lead to Rome, or some version of it, and as far as I can tell this is how Mrs. Abigail Lebrun’s forebears ended up adopting an eastward trajectory again, with the eventual result that the Lebruns took up residence in New York City.
    As I knew them, Mrs. Lebrun spent her days overseeing a rather large four-story townhouse in an outer borough of New York, while Mr. Lebrun governed one of the city’s largest furrier workshops. Mrs. Lebrun had quite a lot of other maids, but she managed to find work for me. Under her watchful schoolmarm eye, I learned how to polish silver, how to care for fur, how to clean diamonds without disturbing them from their pronged settings, and how to mend the most delicate of lace