The Downstairs Girl: Chapter 33–Epilogue

Women like her do not, cannot form affinities with people like me, not if they wish to remain on the top branch.

I imagine the man, two hands taller than me but not much wider, a shadowy figure shaking dice in his loose fist, a maverick who desired more than his earthly allotment.

When we were children, we would joke with each other not to stand so close—him, because I used to swing my braids around, sometimes clipping him in the face; and me, because he had a gangly phase that put my feet in constant jeopardy.

My insides roil at the thought of Merritt's—my brother's—constant flirting.

He straightens his cravat and sets off toward the newcomers.

Then a bear-size man with a grizzled beard appears in the doorway, smelling of cigars and swinging a large carpetbag.

A bucolic landscape pieced from cheerful feed sacks has been stretched onto a wooded frame and hung on the wall.

"So he knew about"—the shameful words stick—"the affair."
"He knew about the dalliance in the cemetery."

A fresh sprig of bluebells adorns her apron, and she's holding a jar of pickles.

An image of Old Gin weaving her through a throng of moving horses sprints through my mind.

Mrs. Payne's mouth hangs half open in shock. “You." She shakes herself free of her stupor. “I’m sorry. It wouldn't be proper."

Mrs. Payne straightens a halter hanging askew on a nail.

Mr. Bell stands the same height as his son, though he is thicker in build and more emphatic in expression.

He removes the spectacles from the end of his ponderous nose and tucks them into the pocket of his linen coat.

After a perfunctory "Good evening, ma'am," Noemi hooks her arm through mine and marches us past the watchful square eyes of the Jesse James dice on the door.

“I never agreed with your depraved lifestyle. I did my honest best to overlook the perversions in your soul, knowing judgment is not mine to pass. But when you start taking swings at folks I know, good folks, you have gone too far. Your creepy clothes-hanger almost done in Old Gin."

"If you weren't blackmailing Old Gin, I would never have debased myself by paying you a visit."

Billy's mouth purses into a petulant knot.

An argument starts up between them, with Billy protesting the banditry of his favorite bauble, and Noemi making threats that she would likely never carry through.

He crosses to the open window and reposes upon the ledge.

"I'm afraid that's not how it works. Tell me what you know, and I will decide its worth. Otherwise, we are at an impasse.”

After a rigorous afternoon of drilling at Six Paces, I return Sweet Potato to the Payne Estate, which is now fully festooned for a party. The groundskeepers have cut topiaries in the shape of horses, and shaved the lawn so close it looks like carpet. Balls made of flowers trim the gazebo.

“You look—" Her gaze spreads over my damp riding silks and to my pebbled-goat-leather boots with my bulging toes. I brace myself for a jibe. But then she finishes, “Like a winner."

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

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.

Nearby, a contingent of women with marigold sashes has drawn the attention of a crowd.

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.

Robby strides up, dapper in his Sunday suit of brushed cotton.

A purple saddle pad emblazoned with the number 4 wraps the horse's middle.

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.

“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."

Nathan would have an easier life with someone like her, someone with whom the law against miscegenation has no bearing.

A few horses down, Thief undulates as if he were made of liquid, with the leprechaun clinging, amphibian-like, on his back.

Scanning the stadium, I finally spot Billy Riggs near the center, blocking the view behind him with a garish plum-colored top hat to match his suit.

I move Sweet Potato into position behind Sunday Surprise, hoping Buxbaum's champ will clear the road ahead, clinching our tenuous lead over Thief.

Beside us, a horse stumbles, causing the one behind it to careen into the rail in a blur of hair and muscle.

His jaunty tail teases us.

Ameer trots beside us, panting and, for the first time, looking chastened.

Silk cord innately has value, but it takes a patient hand to shape it into something better. What is the job of a parent but to teach a child that she has worth so that one day she can transform herself into whatever she wants.