Chasing Secrets (6 page)

W
hen we get home, the Sweetings' uniformed houseboys are carrying Aunt Hortense's white antique writing desk, her chair, her steamer trunk, her footbath, her quilts, her jeweled boxes, and silk pillows in through our front door.

Billy groans. “Aunt Hortense is moving into the spare room.”

“What!”

“Yep. To keep an eye on you.”

“Me? What did I do?”

He rolls his eyes. “At least she's not making us move to her house. Remember when she used to do that?”

“What about Papa?”

“Apparently he's not going to be home for a while.”

I look up at Noah's window. How will I get him his meals with Aunt Hortense watching?

Billy unhooks the traces and takes John Henry's collar off. I sponge down his sweat marks, pick up each of his big flat hooves to check for stones, and let him loose in his stall.

In our parlor, Papa's chair has been moved to make room for Aunt Hortense's French horn, her letter-writing pens, her magazines, her Bible, and a bell to call Maggy. Aunt Hortense stands waiting, dressed to go out, in a white dress with ruffles at the hem, the cuffs, and up and down her bodice. She has ribbons in her hair and a parasol in her hand.

“Why, Elizabeth”—she grinds the tip of the parasol into our rug—“where are your purchases?”

I look at her, try to smile. What is she talking about?

“The ones you bought at the Emporium.”

“Oh, those. I didn't find anything,” I say.

“Is that so?” She stares at me, waiting.

“There wasn't anything I liked.” I can feel my nose growing longer with every word.

“We got a call from the police. You and William were trying to get into the Chinatown quarantine.”

“No—”

“Elizabeth!” she barks.

“We weren't trying to get in,” I whisper. “We were trying to get Jing out.”

“They said you were using Mr. Sweeting's good name to curry favor.”

Billy looks at me.

Aunt Hortense taps me with her parasol. “I won't be lied to.”

“But Jing shouldn't be in there. It's wrong. If Papa were here, he'd get him out. We had to do something.”

“In the first place, we have no idea if Jing is there or not. And in the second place, Mr. Sweeting has already agreed to help. Everything doesn't happen the instant you want it to, missy. But even more important than all of that…what if they do have the plague there?”

“We have to get Jing.”

“You listen to me, young lady. Even without the quarantine, Chinatown is dangerous. You have no business going there, Jing or no Jing. Do you hear?”

Her stern eye falls on Billy. “And as for you, Master William.” She taps her parasol on the rug, then the wooden floor, where it makes a more satisfying
clack.
“I expected more from you. Evidently neither of you can be trusted. While your father's gone, I'll be staying here so I can keep a closer watch on you.”

“When's he coming back?” Billy asks.

“Next week,” Aunt Hortense says.

“Next
week
?” I ask.

“He sent word by telegraph to the
Call
offices. There's a smallpox outbreak. A family with six children in San Rafael. He's got his hands full.”

Papa has been immunized against smallpox, and so have Billy and I, but not everyone believes in immunization. If only they did, then he wouldn't have to be away so long. Why couldn't he just have an office here, the way Dr. Roumalade does?

I watch Aunt Hortense pin her hat. Her calendar is jam-packed with entertaining, committee meetings for charity
events, doing the books for Uncle Karl and all the responsibilities of running a huge house with a staff of thirty-five. She won't be here all the time…will she?

“Mrs. Sweeting, where shall I stay?” red-haired, freckle-faced Nettie asks.

“In your own bed, Nettie. Maggy can handle me, can't you, Maggy?”

A smile flashes on Maggy's face.

“But, Mrs. Sweeting, ma'am, Maggy is not a ladies' maid. She hasn't been properly trained,” Nettie grumbles.

“Well, then she'll learn, won't she?”

“I'm to teach her, then?”

“That would be lovely, Nettie.”

On my windowsill is my collection of gifts from Jing. I run my hand over a smooth black stone carved with Mama's initials. There's the white feather from when I fell off Juliet and the rhyming dictionary with my mother's neat handwriting on the inside—Jing found that for me. On the end is the shell, with the word I misspelled from the spelling bee tucked inside. Jing said your mistakes teach you more than your victories.

Where is Jing now?

Maybe my note to Noah should warn him to be extra careful because Aunt Hortense is staying here now. But with the racket of all her stuff being moved in, not to mention her voice ringing through the house, he must know. Instead I write:

We've seen the quarantine. Monkey makes them wait….Will investigate.

There's a block of cheese in the cold box. I cut a slab and drop it in my pocket. In Maggy's sewing basket, there were spools of thread, which I slipped into my top dresser drawer. Orange Tom is in my room, and I have his collar off. I fold up my message to Noah until it's the same width as Orange Tom's collar, then wrap green thread around the note and the collar until the paper is secure. Orange Tom scratches at the door of my room, trying to get out, his tail moving like a double-jointed finger. He smells of tuna fish.

I put his collar back and carry the sprawling cat to the servants' stairs, his back feet hanging down. I break off bits of cheese and toss them up the stairs while still holding the cat. The first piece falls short. It takes me five tries before I make it all the way up to the landing. With five pieces of cheese scattered along the servants' stairs, I'm confident the cat will go where I want him to. But when I release him, he leaps across the hall and down the main stairs.

It takes me the better part of an hour to catch him again. Now I close the second-floor hall door so he can't escape.

He runs straight up the servants' stairs to get away from me.

I'm listening for Noah's door to open, when Billy appears. He squints at me. “What are you doing with that cat?”

“Nothing.”

“Why do you look so guilty?”

“I don't look guilty.”

“You're hiding something. What is it?”

“Nothing.” I try to go to my room, but he's blocking the door.

“You might as well tell me. You don't want me to find out on my own, do you?”

“Billy, there's nothing.” I shove him out of my way and slam the door.

I
n the morning, I run down and feed the horses and fill their water buckets. Then I consider pretending to be sick. But who wants to stay home with Aunt Hortense? Even Miss Barstow's is better than a day spent writing thank-you notes with Aunt Hortense.

How to get breakfast to Noah? Jing must have food in his room, but how much? Jing was expecting to be gone for two hours, but it's been two days. With Billy watching my every move and Aunt Hortense in command of the drawing room, I couldn't get Noah supper last night.

Luckily, Billy leaves for school before I do. I only have Aunt Hortense to worry about now. Down in the kitchen, the Sweetings' chef, Yang Sun, has brought over croissants and brioche, jams and jellies, honey-butter, clotted cream,
and long baguettes baked with ham and cheese—more food than we could ever eat. I grab a pitcher of water and wrap two croissants and a brioche in a tea towel, but when I go outside, the cord is not down.

In the dining room, Aunt Hortense is drinking her tea and reading the morning paper, with Maggy standing beside her. “Ready?” Aunt Hortense asks.

“No,” I say, and rush upstairs to my room, where I leave my bundle of pastries and compose my message. After a few tries, I come up with:
There's a meal. On the stair. If you dare.
Then I grab blue thread from the drawer and begin searching for the orange cat. I find him in the stable loft, curled up in a bed of straw, next to a dead mouse. He eyes me warily as I unbuckle his collar, which I now see has white thread around it.

Noah sent a message back!

His message is written in black ink on bumpy rice paper. He has made a little drawing of a monkey.

The monkey has a secret.

What does that mean? And what if Aunt Hortense intercepts this note? How will I explain it?

Then I smile. Aunt Hortense is allergic, of course! She won't touch Orange Tom. It's only Billy I have to worry about.

I attach the new message with blue thread. The cat lets his muscles go limp. I carry him down the loft ladder, his legs bumping against mine as I make my way down the rungs. I lug the big fat cat all the way to the house.

I peek through the window. The kitchen is empty. Yang Sun does his cooking in the Sweeting kitchen. Ours is too small for him.

Just as I get Orange Tom in the kitchen, Aunt Hortense sashays across the cold storage room with Nettie and Maggy right behind her. Maggy is carrying a linen pouch full of Aunt Hortense's hair. Each time Maggy brushes her hair, the hairs from the brush must be saved in the bag. She's keeping it to make a hairpiece, should the need arise.

“Maggy,” Nettie says. “I'll take that now.”

Maggy hands her the bag, and Nettie scoots out the kitchen door.

Aunt Hortense looks up. “Elizabeth, don't you dare bring that dreadful creature in here. I'll be sneezing all day.”

“Oh, I forgot,” I say as she streaks into the dining room away from the cat, Maggy flying after her. Now Maggy has a teacup and saucer and a box of menus. Aunt Hortense writes two menus every day, one for the family and one for the servants. She even plans out tea and snacks.

If Aunt Hortense is doing menus, she'll stay put for a while. I go back out and around the house to the front door, then dash up the stairs with the cat. But just as I do, Nettie comes back.

“Didn't you hear Mrs. Sweeting? No cats.”

I pretend to clean the wax out of my ears. “Oh, um,” I say, and head back out.

“Bad enough I got to watch that Maggy,” she grumbles. “She's been hearing things. She ain't right in the mind, that one.”

Orange Tom tries to wiggle out of my arms, but I hold him tight. “What things?”

“From Jing's room when he ain't there.”

Oh, great.

Nettie squints at me. “You know something about that?”

“It's just the cat. He likes to go up there.”

“Cat should be made into a handbag, if you ask me,” Nettie mutters.

I wait until Nettie is gone, then make another run up the stairs with Orange Tom. In my room, I get Noah's tea-towel-wrapped pastries. I place the bundle on the servants' stairs, then toss the cheese up and close the second-floor hall door, so Tom will be forced up to the third floor. If Aunt Hortense or Nettie finds the brioche and croissants, I'll say I planned to take them to school to share with the other girls and I forgot them when I was sitting on the stairs button-hooking my boots.

The water pitchers! If they all disappear, it will be suspicious. I have to remember to bring them back down. It's exhausting thinking of lies Aunt Hortense will believe. But she can't find out about Noah. She'll have him arrested, whether he's Jing's son or not.

Today at Miss Barstow's, the girls are in the dining room. The topic seems to be the move to Presidio Heights. Miss Barstow has found a fancier place for the school. And everybody wonders if that means we'll be wearing uniforms, which of course leads to the topic of bustles. How
big should they be? Which ones ride up when you sit down and which don't?

I sit by myself as usual. My book and me. For a second, I think about what Noah said. Is there one girl I like better than the rest? Nope.

The girls giggle, the metronome pings, a dog barks, and the same three chords are pounded on the piano. I try to concentrate on the story, but all I can think about is Noah.

The barking continues. Miss Barstow would never allow a dog in the house. I walk out of the dining room and up the thickly carpeted stairs toward the sound. If you're caught hurrying, you must recite the class motto, “All things come to him who waits,” and freeze while everyone passes you by. At the very least shouldn't it be: “All things come to he who waits”?

In the geography room, old maps cover the walls, wood floors clack under my boots, and the dunce cap waits for its next victim. Gemma is plunked down on the floor, crutches splayed out beside her.

“Gemma? Did you fall?”

Gemma barks.

“Wait. You're the dog?”

Gemma licks her hand, and then rotates her arm around her ear, like a canine itching with its back leg. “Shhh, Gemma! If Miss Barstow hears you, she'll pitch a fit.”

“A dog bit me this morning. I have rabies.” Gemma tips back her head and howls.

“Rabies? You can't get rabies that quickly.”

“How would you know?”

“My father's a doctor.”

“Really?” Her arm drops down.

All I know about Gemma is that she often asks me what I'm reading and the other girls like her a lot.

I help her up and hand her her crutches. She fits them under her armpits just as Miss Barstow rings the bell.

Gemma smiles. I look around to see who has come up behind me.

No one. She's smiling at me. I can't help grinning back.

“Time for dance class,” I say.

“You like to dance?”

I hate to dance. It's worse than swallowing cod liver oil. Last week, when Gemma wasn't here, Miss Annabelle called me Horse Feet, and the girls all laughed. Why am I nodding?

“Miss Barstow says I'm not allowed to.”

“You're on crutches,” I point out.

“So?”

I want to talk to her as long as I can, before the other girls arrive and I become invisible. “Did you really get bitten by a rabid dog?”

“It may have been more of a hard lick.”

“A hard lick?” I try not to laugh.

She leans in. “Can you get rabies from dog spit?”

Is this a joke? Every time I laugh at something a girl at Miss Barstow's says, I get weird looks. “I wouldn't think so…unless the dog licks an open wound.”

She looks down at her wrist. Her shoulders droop.

“You
want
rabies, Gemma?”

“No.” She plants her crutches and swings her body to meet them. I follow her to the dance studio and stand with her. When the others come, I'll lose this spot. But now only the little girls are here.

“Ring around the rosie, pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, they all fall down.” They collapse in a heap.

“Why do they fall on the floor like that?” I ask.

“They're dead.”

“From what?”

“The plague.”

“Nice,” I say.

Gemma laughs.

I stare at her.

She frowns. “What's the matter?”

“You laughed.”

“So?”

I tip my head at the girls streaming through the door. “They never laugh.”

Her eyes look deep inside me. “They're all right,” she whispers. “You should give them a chance.”

I should give
them
a chance?

“They're not sure what to say to you, that's all,” Gemma whispers as Miss Barstow swoops into the room to begin her lesson.

“San Francisco is the Paris of the Pacific, and every young woman must know the language, the dances, and the culture. French restaurants have taken over the city. French clothes are all the rage, and any one of us might marry a Frenchman with a title—a duke or a baron.” Miss
Barstow sails across the floor, her back as straight as a scalpel, her steel-gray hair tightly pinned. The mole on her lip is the only part of her that seems unplanned.

“Listen, please, ladies,” she says, but my eyes are on Gemma. Even with the other girls here, Gemma hasn't backed away from me.

“When a gentleman approaches you at the cotillion, what might you say to spark a conversation?” Miss Barstow asks.

The weather, music, hunting, his schooling. The usual answers.

“I'd ask, were you a bed wetter?” I whisper. But as soon as I do, I regret it. My tongue is like an enemy in my mouth.

Gemma peeks at me, eyes sparkling.

I keep going. “No shame in it,” I whisper. “George Washington was a bed wetter.”

Gemma flaps her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing, just as the elocution teacher pokes her head in the door and motions to Miss Barstow.

“He could have been,” I tell her when Miss Barstow ducks out of the room. “We don't know. What biographer is going to write about that? Or you could ask your gentleman friend what runs in his family—madness? Apoplexy?”