Page 3 of The Scarlet Ball

“Tell me how she did it,” she said, and the maid’s hands rose, an abortive effort to free herself from the mistress’s grasp before she let them fall limp like paws to her side again.

“Ma’am, forgive me, please, I don’t know!”

“In this house, my house?”

I’d heard the rivermen curse, the big men who might be ripped in half when one of the great cables that connected their ox teams to the barges snapped, and they had nothing on Mrs. Howard with those two words. The maid cringed and again wailed she didn’t know, she didn’t know, no one knew, not with Miss Ginny, no one ever knew.

Mrs. Howard thrust her away impatiently, sending her stumbling, and I saw with mute dread the wisps of steam lift up from where she’d grasped the maid’s collar. The knot of hair at her nape had protected her from the worst of it, but her uniform’s collar was singed black and crackling.

“Up to your room,” Mrs. Howard said with great control. “Stay there, and do not let me see your face again ’til I call for it.”

The maid took to her heels, and for a moment, Mrs. Howard was simply still, gone inward like a statue. Some of the grand Dutch dames did just that, graciously gave up their body to the stone that served them for bones, became statues that their descendants would tactfully place in niches in their new mansions. I wondered, fascinated, if I would see that now, but then her eyes—livid and the farthest thing from unliving rock—opened and she saw me.

“You,” she said, and without thinking, I dipped in a low curtsy as I had been taught. I did not belong to her, was not her servant or a relative, but with creatures like Mrs. Howard, in no way did it hurt to be cautious. You bowed low, you prayed they did not take against you, and above all, you did not speak until you were directed to do so.

“What in Heaven’s name are you?”

“I am from Madame Valois’s shop,” I offered, my accent refined but not too elevated. “I have a delivery for—”

She took the box from me and set it aside without a glance, and then she could look at me with nothing between us, her quick pale eyes up and down my form like the flick of a dressage whip. I stood straight because that kind never wants to see you cowering unless they decide they do, and it was only long nights in the mirrored halls that kept me from fidgeting my hands or caving in my shoulders to hide.

“No, tell me without delay. What are you?”

“As I said, ma’am, I work for Madame Valois.”

She made a cutting gesture with her hand.

“Oh, that pretentious little woman. I ask again, what are you? Tell me before I grow angry.”

She was always angry, I could tell that.

“I came from France—”

She jabbed a sharp finger at my face, right into the fat of my cheek. It wasn’t hard enough to bruise, but there’s something humiliating about it the great ladies seem to like. I’d seen it send girls into tears, but I only stood and stared at her, my mouth set in something I hoped she would not see as insolence.

“Not that, either. Girl, I tell you—”

“Annamese, madame,” I said, and I hoped it would be enough. I was six the first time I had heard that name, a year older before my mother thought to tell me the truth of it, that she was born at ChâuĐốc in An Giang. It was my first lesson in names and what they meant, which is that a name is less important than what someone wishes to call you, and how important that person is. Annam is no more An Giang than I am Judith Ban.

“Oriental and French,” Mrs. Howard murmured to herself. “That certainly says a few things, doesn’t it?”

She did not expect an answer, and I didn’t give one. Suddenly her gaze snapped up, and I realized I had made a mistake in not lowering my eyes to the floor. It was too late, and I found myself pinned, unable to move if I wanted to, and by that point, I very much wanted to.

There’s something reptilian about women like Mrs. Howard; not the small quick lizards that lived in my earliest memories, but more like the great crocodile they had exhibited in the Jardin des Plantes. I had thought it was a log at first until the keeper pointed out its eyes and how they would not close. Like crocodiles, the ladies of New York society were always watching, and when they spied weakness—

She pinched my cheek suddenly, grabbing flesh between two fingers and twisting hard. My mouth dropped open, but no noise came out, and it was very good that she let go when she did, because otherwise, I would have struck her. I almost did, my hand twitching at my side only to fall back when she smiled coldly and stepped away.

“Do Annamites feel pain?” she asked, and I glared at her.

“We do, ma’am.”

She reached for me again, but this time her plump white hand was gentle, tracing the mark she’d left thoughtfully like I was a horse she might buy. This time, I took a step back from her deliberately; of service, but not in it.

“Ma’am, while my instructions were to see the package to the hand of Miss Howard or her maid, I am sure that—”

“What in the world are you sure of?” Mrs. Howard said with delicate scorn. “Anything? Anything at all?”

Before I could respond, she stood back from me, pointing at the window.