Momma, I do believe that the manners and etiquette taught at Miss Preston’s may be some of the best instruction in the whole state of Maryland, if not all of the United States. Honestly, where else do Negro girls get to truly learn their place: serving the fine white folks of the world and keeping them safe?
The mayor’s iron pony picks us up at half past four. Dinner is to begin at five thirty with cocktails, and Miss Anderson doesn’t want to be late. There’s murder in her eyes when she talks about how grand the mayor’s dinner is going to be. And the wide smile she gives when Katherine and I climb into the passenger compartment does not help the anxiety clawing its way through my guts. Not one bit.
Katherine is chatty as a magpie on the way to the mayor’s house, and even Miss Duncan looks a bit fatigued from attempting to share in her good humor. Katherine, however, is plain radiant. Her gold-streaked curls are swept into an Attendant’s bun high on her head. Escaped ringlets soften the harsh style. Her Attendant’s formal dress is a pale pink that compliments her golden skin perfectly and falls to her knees; the undertrousers are a darker pink, and the stockings and boots are cream. Her white gloves, which I refused to wear because they made my hands feel clumsy, are effortlessly elegant. A jab of jealousy hits me every time I look over at her. She looks like some kind of delicious confection. Nobody needs to be that pretty, especially in silly Attendant’s garb.
My dark thoughts are misplaced, though. It’s only because of Katherine’s help that I ain’t looking too bad myself. My Attendant’s garb is done in shades of green. The dress is an emerald that sets off the deep bronze of my skin in a very nice way, while the undertrousers are a lighter shade, my stockings striped green and white, and my boots brown. I’ve never had such a lovely dress, the fit snug enough to let me fight yet modest enough not to cause scandal. My sickles—the fancy ones from Red Jack, not the ungainly practice ones from school—are strapped into a fine leather belt tooled to carry such things, the holster on the belt empty, since Mayor Carr doesn’t much care for guns in his estate. There are even pockets sewn into the skirt, a request the dressmaker was happy to oblige, and I’ve hidden Tom Sawyer in one just in case I find time to read some later. Katherine helped me do something with my stubborn curls, using a pair of hot tongs to subdue the mess into the required Attendant’s bun.
When she’d showed me what she’d done in the mirror, I’d laughed. “Well, look at that. I look right proper.”
“Don’t worry, Jane, you could never pass for proper,” Katherine had said, her tone teasing instead of harsh. Wonder of all wonders, I do believe we are becoming friends.
We arrive at the mayor’s estate safe and sound, which is somewhat of a surprise, what with all of Katherine’s talking and what I am certain is impending doom in Miss Anderson’s treacherous eyes. We get out, and Katherine takes a deep breath. “Jane, look at it. It’s breathtaking.”
Mayor Carr’s house is quite impressive. The barrier fence that surrounds the grounds is made of wrought iron at least ten feet tall, and I wonder how Jackson was able to scale such a high fence. Dogs patrol the grass around the property, sniffing the ground. I’ve heard of such dogs, they’re similar to the dogs the slave patrols used to hunt down runaways in the old days. These dogs are trained to alert on shamblers, barking loudly and getting right vicious when they smell the undead. But right now? They just look like normal floppy-eared dogs.
Still, I make a point not to get too close.
The house itself is monstrously huge. It’s equally as big as our school, but tobacco fields, not woodland, surround the back acreage. The mayor’s house is newer and made of a white stone that rises up four stories, the roof topped by a plethora of cupolas and gables, looking very fancy and imposing. But there’s something else here that catches my eye, something even more impressive than the size of the house.
Electric lights.
I’ve seen electricity before, of course—word of Mr. Edison’s experiments in New Jersey had made their way down the Eastern Seaboard and there had even been a demonstration a year or so back here in Baltimore. I’ve never heard of them installed in a private home, though, and yet here they are, lighting up the pathway to the entrance. I couldn’t help but stare.
This is the house of a man used to being followed and obeyed, a man who has enough people between him and the shambler threat to never feel fear.
Miss Anderson and Miss Duncan lead the way up the front walk. Katherine and I keep a few paces behind, as taught. She walks with the grace and carriage of a true lady; I slouch along, hands resting on the hilts of my sickles, ready to draw them at the first sign of trouble.
Both of our instructors wear sedate, dove-gray dresses, but even the plain attire ain’t enough to detract from Miss Duncan’s beauty; Mr. Redfern’s eyes settle on her as soon as we enter the sitting room where most of the attendees have gathered for drinks. Coming over to greet our party, he’s the spitting image of the civilized savage the papers are always discussing: well-cut jacket, fashionable waistcoat, hair pulled back in a queue, well-worn boots, and a Bowie knife strapped to his waist. The perfect combination of gentleman and ruthless killer, just like the main character in some frontier adventure. He wears it like a costume, and I get the feeling Mr. Redfern also likes to use the low expectations of people to his advantage. Either way, it is most definitely a style that works for him, judging from the way Miss Duncan lights up. While Miss Anderson and Mr. Redfern exchange pleasantries, I note that he wears the knife on his right side. Mr. Redfern is left-handed, an interesting fact that I file away for later.
Mr. Redfern’s eyes barely even take in the rest of us before he bows deeply to Miss Duncan. “It is a pleasure to have your company for the evening meal, ladies. If you would follow me, I would be happy to make introductions.”
Miss Duncan, for her part, smiles widely. “Thank you, sir. I’m afraid I’m at a loss, because I never got the privilege of your name.” The two of them make eyes at each other for a minute, sharing a secret.
Mr. Redfern smiles. “My apologies. I am Daniel Redfern.”
Miss Duncan gives a quick curtsy. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Redfern. Amelia Duncan.”
I don’t know who they think they’re fooling with this act, but I’m convinced utterly that they are already well acquainted. Miss Duncan knows Mr. Redfern, but how? She catches me scowling at her and raises a questioning eyebrow. I smooth my expression and turn my attention back to the introductions.
Miss Duncan gestures at me and Katherine. “I trust you already know the girls.”
“Yes, we have met.” Mr. Redfern nods politely at Miss Anderson and Katherine before his eyes settle on me, his pleasant expression going hard. “Follow me,” he says.
I stand there, baffled, as they all file off to meet the crème de la crème of Baltimore’s elite. It might be my imagination, but I do believe this is the third time Mr. Redfern has looked at me as though he’d like nothing more than to use me as shambler bait.
I take my time following for the introductions, getting a feel for the house before making my way through the crowd. The sitting room is large, and off to the side is a massive dining room with seating for forty. The rooms here are lit by regular old gas lamps; I suppose the mayor put the electric ones outside to show off to guests and passersby. I watch as Mr. Redfern introduces Katherine and the Misses Duncan and Anderson to a group of women clustered together like a group of chattering hens, their broad chests puffed out in self-importance. One glance at their faces has me walking in the opposite direction.
Momma always said a healthy serving of scorn before dinner keeps a girl slim.
I remain posted up near the doorway while Katherine and the instructors circulate through the crowd. From here I can see right into the dining room and the majority of the sitting room while being blissfully ignored.
In the dining room servants are putting out place settings. A pasty-complexioned man barks out orders to the servants, most of them darker than me. They’re older, and they have the hangdog look I associate with the folks who came up enslaved, who never knew a taste of freedom until it was too late for them to properly embrace it. But one of the men walks with his head a little too high, as though he knows his worth. He’s lighter than the rest, his shoulders thrown back in a proud way, a sparkle of mischief in his too-light eyes.
Red Jack.
He looks out of place in a servant’s white shirt and jacket, gloves on his hands. The bruising on his face is barely noticeable, no doubt covered up by cosmetics from one of the working girls he knows. What does he think he’s doing, trying to hide in plain sight when the mayor’s boys roughed him up not two days ago? He sees me enter and pauses for a moment, raising a single eyebrow in a way that says, Look at you, all cleaned up. I give him my best glare, and he just winks at me.
Watching the preparations for dinner causes a lump to rise up in my throat. A wave of homesickness like I’ve never felt washes over me, and I place a hand on my middle. Sudden tears threaten, and I blink hard to force them away. It’s been so long since I’ve been to Rose Hill that I wonder if the whole memory ain’t some kind of fever dream.
Does my momma even miss me? All my memories of Rose Hill are filled with her—her voice, her delicate beauty. But here, so many miles from home, I have to wonder if the place even exists. For all the letters I post to her regularly, Momma hasn’t written me in over ten months.
Is she even still alive? I could be writing to a ghost. Or worse, a shambler.
It’s a question I’ve refused to ask myself. I don’t want to think about what it would do to my world if Momma is dead. The only thing that’s kept me going at Miss Preston’s is the way Momma looked at me when the truant officer pulled me away toward the waiting pony. “Be the best. Learn what you need to learn and come back to me,” she’d said. So I will.
Now, I’m almost ready to graduate from Miss Preston’s, but I have no idea if there even is a Rose Hill to return to anymore. What is my future? This, right here, standing at the edge of a room like a piece of furniture?
The dinner bell rings, jarring me out of my reverie. I slip out of the dining room and into the gathering area, falling back to where the ladies mill about, waiting for their escorts. Katherine looks over as I sidle up, wearing her lemon-eating face.
“Where have you been?” she whisper-yells at me.
“I was right there in the doorway, watching the entrances. Why’re you so out of sorts?”
Katherine just gives a quick shake of her head, and I shrug. Whatever’s amiss, she ain’t sharing.
“Well, Jackson is in the dining room, by the by, all decked out like a servant.” I glance over in the direction of the white ladies, who talk to each other behind fans and gloved hands. They cast us curious glances that ain’t the least bit friendly. I look around the room and frown. “Where are their girls?”
Katherine glances around as well. “That is an excellent question, Jane. Perhaps you would have heard how most of them were dismissed after their cowardly behavior at the lecture, if you had joined us in the sitting room.”
“They dismissed their girls? Just like that?”
Katherine adjusts her gloves and ducks her head in respectful acknowledgment to a young fellow that can’t seem to stop staring at her. “Just like that. But get this: apparently there is some sort of scandal with folks going missing. The Edgars never made it home from Miss Preston’s two weeks ago. Their pony was overrun and they were consumed by shamblers! All things you would know if you hadn’t been off skulking about.”
“I was watching the entrance—”
Katherine silences me with a single glare. “There’s something going on here. Between the Edgars and the Spencers . . . Keep your head about you, Jane. And in the meantime, don’t ruin this opportunity for me.”
Folks line up to enter the dining room, the mayor and his wife at the front of the line. Katherine and I stand along the wall at attention, but even though we’re doing just what we’re supposed to, I can feel Miss Anderson’s glare burrowing into me, and I stand a little straighter. I ain’t going to afford that woman an excuse to give me any grief. But mostly, I don’t want to ruin things for Katherine. The mayor and his Survivalist pals might be as corrupt as the night is long, but this is the life she wants, and even though I’m lukewarm on her, I won’t do anything to stand in the way of her future.
Formal dinners require a procession from the sitting rooms into the dining room, a process I find to be the height of silliness. All the men and women pair off and go marching in to eat food that’s like as not gotten cold by the time they get there.
A handsome young swank comes to offer his arm to Katherine, and she reddens. “Oh, no, I’m sorry, sir. I’m an Attendant.” The man looks like he’s about to object to her polite refusal, but then he catches an older woman’s eye and moves off to escort a homely girl in a yellow dress instead.
Once everyone has filed into the dining room Katherine and I follow the dinner party in. “Well, that was a whole barrelful of awkward,” I say.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Katherine says stiffly, her eyes darting around like she’s afraid she might be on the dinner menu.
We take up our places along the wall opposite the serving board, a space left vacant for serving girls and Attendants. Someone clears his throat loudly next to me. I look to my left and all but groan.
“Mr. Redfern.”
“Indeed, Miss McKeene.”
“You here to keep an eye on us? It would be difficult to steal the silver when everyone’s using it.”
His lip twitches. “You aren’t the only one working tonight.”
I nod. “Well, then, what exactly are we supposed to do?”
“Wait and watch our betters eat.” The man crosses his arms, and there’s a recognizable bitterness to his voice that asks for no response.
The first course is served, a cream-based soup the servants ladle out from a large tureen. I sniff the air. Crab bisque. It looks heavenly. Mr. Redfern watches me intently, and I shrug. “What?” I ask.
“You aren’t missing anything,” he says. “What they’re eating is a little past it’s prime, carted in days ago from the docks. You girls eat better out at the school.”
My stomach growls, and I shift. “Would that we had eaten.”
Mr. Redfern shrugs. “Lesson learned I suppose.”
It’s the first time he’s been anything but dismissive to me, and I seize the opportunity to pry. “What tribe are you from, Mr. Redfern?”
“Lenape. I doubt you’ve heard of us, my people don’t exactly get featured in the weekly serials.”
“Is Redfern a Lenape name?”
His lips tighten. “No, it was the name given to me by a teacher at the school I was sent to when I was six.”
I brighten and cling tight to the fact that we have something in common. “Did you go to a combat school?”
He doesn’t look at me as he answers. “They called it an industrial school, but yes.”
“What was it like?”
“They took me from my family, cut my hair, beat me every time they felt like it, and sent me to work for the mayor when I was eighteen.” His expression is still calm.
“Sounds familiar,” I say before I consider my words too carefully.
His eyes widen slightly, and he looks straight ahead once more. “You should spend less time conversing and more time listening.”
“You don’t like me very much, and I ain’t sure why. I’ve done nothing to earn it.” His words have opened up an ugly feeling in me, part rage at the unfairness of it all, part anguish, and I don’t know what to do with it but throw it back at Mr. Redfern.
“I’ve seen you skulking on the county roads in the dead of night, Miss McKeene. Do you know they call you the Angel of the Crossroads, the people you save?”
I get an uncomfortable feeling like I’m sliding backward down a slope into a deep hole that I dug my own self. If people are whispering about me, that isn’t good. Stories have power, and how long will it be before Miss Preston hears about my nocturnal exploits?
Mr. Redfern continues. “I don’t like you because you’re arrogant and self-important. You could be so much better than you are, but you’re too selfish to see it.”
There ain’t much I can say to that. His words sting, and he isn’t even looking at me to determine their impact. Next to me, Katherine hasn’t said a word during our entire exchange, just kept watch over the white folks eating their meals. Seems like as good a plan as any, so I look straight ahead and wish the time away.
The servants return to clear the plates and set down the next course, a fruit compote with cheese melted on top. Then there’s a fish course that smells like something died, yet all those fine gentlemen and ladies gobble it up. All the while, there’s a fierce hollowness gnawing at my insides and I try to imagine a life of this, watching fine people eat while I nigh on starve to death. It’s the first time I’ve considered what the life of an Attendant might truly be like. It ain’t a comforting thought.
Up to now I’ve been focused on whatever mischief Jackson is getting mixed up with, Mr. Redfern’s inscrutable glare, and the food everyone has been eating. I’ve been so preoccupied that I’ve just now noticed Miss Anderson’s companion, a sickly pale man who is draining his third glass of wine. The man sweats, dabbing his brow with his pocket square, his hands shaking as he puts it away. Next to him Miss Anderson is talking, but the man is too far gone to pay her proper attention. Saliva makes a discreet trail down the side of his mouth, and he reaches with clumsy hands for his napkin.
He’s turning. Right there, at the table. Any moment now his eyes will start to yellow, and when he does Miss Anderson will be his first course.
I don’t have a moment to wonder how on earth this rich man could have become infected. I look around to see if anyone else notices what I do, but Katherine stares into the distance, the disciplined gaze that functions to make our charges feel watched and not watched at the same time; and Mr. Redfern is speaking in low voices with one of the servants, directing the girl to stop serving wine to this guest or that one. Even Miss Anderson is too busy with her own wine glass to see that her neighbor is panting, laboring under the change his body is going through.
I tap my companion’s shoulder. “Mr. Redfern.”
He gives me an irritated glare before turning back to the conversation with the serving girl on his other side.
I grab his arm, shaking him. “Mr. Redfern!”
His head whips around. “What?” he snarls, all pretense of manners gone.
“Might I borrow your blade for a moment?” I ask sweetly, pointing across the table to the man stumbling to his feet, knocking over glasses as he does so. A low growl comes from his throat and a chorus of answering screams ring through the dining room as everyone realizes that there’s a shambler in their midst.
Mr. Redfern seems to be as much in shock as everyone else, so I grab his blade without waiting for permission. I heft the knife in my hand, taking just long enough to get a feel for the weight. Then, as the man lunges for Miss Anderson, I hurl the knife through the air.
It’s a good throw, and the blade goes end over end between the heads of the dinner guests before lodging squarely in the temple of the shambler. For a moment the creature continues its grab for Miss Anderson before crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
My instructor backs away in terror, her face gone pale as she stares at me across the table. Everyone’s eyes are upon me now, their faces twisted in disgust, as if killing a dinner guest, shambler or no, is a terrible faux pas.
“My word,” the mayor’s wife says from the far end of the table. The look she gives me makes me feel less human and more like a bear that’s managed to stumble into the middle of dinner.
“Yes, it was an amazing throw, wasn’t it?” Katherine says, her voice a tad too bright. “Jane was first in our class for knife handling. You should see what she can do at thirty feet!”
No one answers, but the Misses Duncan and Anderson both give me looks that make it clear that I have very much made a mistake.
Feh. I should’ve let the shambler eat Miss Anderson’s face.