It wasn’t until the next morning that he learned what had happened in the fields. It was all anyone was talking about on the omnibus. From what they said, the strikers had planned a march to the financial district in order to compel those who owned the factories to look at them. The police had allowed the strikers to get as far as the fields, at which point a barricade had been set up, supported by a phalanx of armed men on horseback. Another phalanx of men, supplanted by members of the Good Time Gang, had been moving up the block behind them. Not only had this blocked the strikers’ progress, it had boxed them in so that the only means of escape was through the narrow entrance to the fields.
The exact purpose of the authorities in doing all this was not entirely clear; what was clear was that no one had anticipated the ground collapsing beneath all of them. It turned out that the illusion that the field was situated on solid ground was dependent upon the relatively small number of tramps who could be found congregating there at any one time. The transportation tunnels ran beneath the entire length of the field, and it had never had the strength to support the weight of several hundred stamping feet followed by the gallop of a phalanx of police on horseback. Dozens of people had been sucked into the ground, and on the morning commute there were varying opinions as to who was actually responsible for this.
“The police forced those people into that place knowing full well what would happen. Even if they’ll never admit it,” one passenger stated. “They killed those people just as surely as if they’d executed them.”
“If it’s true it’s no less than they deserve,” said another. “Violent rabble rousers, marching through downtown! It was anarchy plain and simple.”
“Nonsense, it was a peaceful march. They have legitimate complaints and a right to protest. Do you have any idea what it is like to work in the Magazine?”
“No, and I don’t want to know. It’s why I’ve worked so hard, so that I never will. No one owes those people anything. Americans persevere through hard work and dedication, but you see most of those people don’t understand that because they are foreigners.”
“We’d be better off without them is what I say. This is America, and they should respect it enough to obey our laws or they should go back where they came from.”
This diversity of strong opinions swirled about him throughout his entire ride to the Avenue. At several points, the conversations became so heated that Mr. Sitwell found himself concerned that his fellow passengers might come to actual blows.
He was relieved when at last he arrived at his stop, where it seemed the turmoil had not quite ended. When he turned onto the Avenue, two men were waiting on the corner. When he tried to walk past them they put out their hands to stop him.
“Where do you think you’re going?” one of them said. But then the other one shook his head.
“No, this one’s okay. He works for the Southerner, Barclay.”
The first man backed away. It turned out they were both off-duty policemen, hired by the neighborhood association to ensure the security of homes along the Avenue in case of a possible anarchist attack.
“No one is to be allowed in or out without express permission until further notice. Make sure these men know who you are.”
“Yes, sir. I will do that.”
Once he’d gotten past the security detail he found the rest of the Avenue completely unchanged. Everything was as tranquil and lovely as it always was and as he walked down the block, Mr. Sitwell felt fortunate that somehow, twenty years before, he had found such a good place to hide.
For the first time since arriving in the city, he found himself wondering if perhaps there was no need to hide any longer. Mr. Barclay’s negotiations were almost completed and he no longer had to worry about the boys. The house was stable again and now that he was back inside it he would be in a position to help ensure it stayed that way. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but remembering who the woman in his dreams actually was had changed something inside him; for the first time since he’d been in the city, Mr. Sitwell felt safe.
What’s more, he had dinner with Jennie to look forward to.
He pushed through the gate, then smiled when he saw his three boys standing in the mud near the water pump.
“Why is it every time I turn around you three are playing with that pump?”
“We’re not playing with it. We’re trying to fix it,” Mac said.
“Fix it?”
“No water comes out,” Frederick said. “Hasn’t been for the past week. We know how busy you are, so we’ve been trying to fix it ourselves.”
Mr. Sitwell smiled. They were such good boys.
“Well, that’s very thoughtful of you. But mind what you’re doing. You don’t want to make it worse.”
He crouched down and rolled up his sleeves. He was just about to reach inside the pipe when the sound of Mamie’s voice stopped him.
“Mr. Sitwell? What do you think you’re doing?”
“The pump is broken. It needs to be fixed.”
“Perhaps, but not by you. I told you the yard is no longer your responsibility.”
“What if there was a fire?”
“There shall be no fire, Mr. Sitwell. Hear me? Not until the new man is hired. I forbid it. Now come away from there. I’ve got a surprise for you in the kitchen.”
Mr. Sitwell stood up. He looked back at the boys.
“You heard the woman. Let it alone for now. Apparently it’s not for us to worry about. We’ll let the new man take care of it as soon as he is hired.”
In the kitchen Mamie was standing near the stove, smiling as she held something behind her back.
“What is it?”
She brought her hands out in front of her and held up the new uniform Mrs. Lawson had made for him.
“Do you like it?” She held the jacket to his chest. “Go ahead. Try it on.”
She smiled as she watched him drape it over his shoulders then fit his arms into the sleeves.
“How fine you look. How that jacket suits you. I would like to see you wear it all the time from now on. Because you are part of the household staff now, Mr. Sitwell.” She gave him a serious look. “You understand that, don’t you? The yard is no longer your responsibility. Perhaps this morning it’s just the water pump but I know you. If you don’t stop now people will continue to ask you to do something in the yard, and the next thing I know, Mr. Barclay will be telling me there is no need for a new groundskeeper when Mr. Sitwell is content to perform the duties of two men. And then I shall have to watch him throw a groundskeeper’s salary away at some gambling hall. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
Mamie nodded. “Good. Now, if you please.” She pointed toward the kitchen table. “Have a seat.”
He sat down at the table. Mamie reached into the oven and set a covered dish before him.
“What is this?”
“One of the perks of management.”
When he removed the cover, he found two poached eggs, a side of ham, and a biscuit covered in gravy.
“Mr. Thomas, the man you are replacing, demanded this of me every morning.” Mamie smiled. “For you I shall do it with pleasure.”
“Thank you. But I’m not Mr. Thomas. It’s not necessary.”
“I feel it is. For you, part of the challenge of being a butler is going to be learning to behave like one.”
Mr. Sitwell nodded and picked up his fork.
Mamie took a seat across from him. She looked around the kitchen and smiled.
“Isn’t this something? After all we’ve been through together? Who would have imagined it when we first started? Me, a shy chambermaid being bullied by Mr. Thomas. You, a frightened little boy hiding from Mr. Boudreaux under the kitchen table. Now look at us. Mr. Thomas is gone. Mr. Boudreaux is gone. I am the cook of a respectable house and you are the butler of the same.”
“Yes, Mamie. It’s wonderful.”
She sighed. “So the next time this happens, perhaps I won’t have to worry.”
“Next time?”
“Next time the Barclays find themselves in a state of near destitution. Because you and I will both have options.”
Mr. Sitwell stopped eating. “I thought the house was fine now.”
“It is. For now. But I think we’ve both worked here long enough to realize there is a reason the Barclays wound up in their situation. After all, it’s hardly the first time. Remember seven years ago? When Mrs. Barclay’s inheritance finally ran out? The panic and confusion? All the hysteria over Mrs. Barclay having to sell some of her precious jewelry? And yet it seems they learned nothing from it. Today’s lunch, Mrs. Barclay’s shopping . . . Always spending money they do not yet have. That’s why this house will never truly be stable. Quite frankly, I no longer believe, as I once did, that there is much stability in being a household servant at all. No, Sitwell. What we must do, if we want to avoid such situations in the future, is find work in a hotel. Some place like the Fowler.”
“The Fowler?” The Fowler was the finest hotel in the city.
Mr. Sitwell looked at her. It occurred to him that of all the remaining servants Mamie was the only one who could leave there with the expectation of finding a position that was better than what she had now as opposed to one that was worse. She had spent years cultivating both her skills in the kitchen and her reputation among Mr. Barclay’s many dinner guests. Her value was no longer specific to the house. It was simply undeniable.
“You’ve thought of leaving, haven’t you?”
“Haven’t you? I couldn’t before, you know that as well as I do. As a cook’s assistant? And a black woman to boot? Where would I have gone? No, it would have been simply trading bad for worse. But I have a title now. A title that I have more than earned. And soon enough so shall you.”
Mr. Sitwell set down his fork. “So that is what this is really about then? You want me to come into the house not so much to be the butler but so that I will be able to say I am a butler should I need to seek other employment?”
“You need the title. Mrs. Lawson was right about that. Out there, in the real world, it matters what people call you. It matters a great deal. And like it or not, there is a difference between a former butler of a good house trying to find employment and a groundskeeper trying to do the same.”
“I hadn’t realized my prospects gave you such cause for concern.”
“It’s not you that gives me cause for concern. It’s the world out there.” She shook her head. “Have you not heard what happened in the fields yesterday? What has become of the poor people who slept there? No, I could never in good conscience have left you to fend for yourself as you were, a groundskeeper as a result of Mr. Boudreaux’s caprice.”
She reached for his hand.
“Why are we talking about this? There is no need and perhaps there will never be. It’s not true that getting you a title is the only reason I want you in the house. I need you here. I need someone I can count on, someone I can trust. I could not have gotten through these past months without you. And I may have no confidence in the Barclays, but I have always had a great deal of confidence in you.”
Mr. Sitwell nodded and, touched by her words, finished his breakfast. Then he put his empty plate in the sink, buttoned his jacket, and pushed through to the front of the house.
Now that he had accepted his new role he understood that being the butler was far different from pretending to be one. He was now in charge of supervising the entire household staff, and it was up to him to make sure the day’s event went well, a responsibility complicated by the fact that, as was true of most things that went on in the Barclay household, he would be required to compensate for a serious lack.
Mr. Pound had made his requests with respect to the menu and Mamie had endeavored to accommodate him, making all manner of substitutions based on what food was actually available in the house. Even with the substitutions there was, according to Mamie, enough food on hand to satisfy the appetites of ten women; Mr. Pound had told them to expect twice that number. The only way to make up for this would be to find a way to sufficiently satiate their hunger before they actually sat down to eat.
Hence the significance of the sauce. Mamie had instructed Mr. Whitmore to deploy his butchering skill to salvage every edible portion of meat left in the larder, save that which was needed for the following night’s dinner. These scraps were ground down then mixed with egg, onion, and flour, constructed into an appealing shape, and then deep-fried on skewers. The skewers were to be accompanied by copious amounts of Mr. Sitwell’s sauce and offered to the ladies as soon as they entered the front door.
It was the best they could come up with and therefore it would have to do. Mrs. Lawson, however, seemed personally offended by the unorthodoxy of it.
“There’s giblets on those skewers,” she complained. “Giblets.”
“No one will know unless you tell them.”
“I will know. And because Mamie has seen fit to replace Petunia with a girl who lacks the slightest competency on the floor, she insists that I must serve them as well. What should I say if someone asks me what this barbarous concoction I am offering them to eat actually is?”
“You should lie, Mrs. Lawson,” Mr. Sitwell said. “You should lie as if your job depended on it. Because quite frankly, it very well might.”
Yet, in part inspired by the anxiety caused by Mrs. Lawson’s conviction that the women would be able to detect the poor quality of the meat, a further innovation was seized upon. Mr. Sitwell had planned on greeting the ladies at the door with tall flutes of orange juice and soda water. It was decided that a small portion of vodka should be added as well, in the hopes that the alcohol would further promote the sense of satisfaction with the day’s event that they were all hoping to achieve.
At noon the ladies began to arrive. They were an imposing group, the wives of some of the most prominent men in the city. Mrs. Pound and Mrs. Barclay both greeted them at the door while Mr. Sitwell, Mrs. Lawson, and Jennie formed a row of hands along the front hall, ready to take their hats and coats and shawls. Mrs. Pound was a charming host and Mrs. Barclay, her mood no doubt buoyed by the purchase of a new dress, was far more sociable than she had been during dinner. They gathered together in the sitting room and chatted happily with one another as Mrs. Lawson and the three boys walked around them, distributing copious amounts of both the skewers and flutes. For an hour or so, everything seemed to be going as Mr. Sitwell and Mamie had hoped.
Then something changed. It was subtle at first—a few odd outbursts of laughter, the occasional slurring of words. By the time he realized the cause, some of the women had become maudlin. He grabbed Bart and told him to stop distributing the flutes.
“What’s wrong?”
“They are drunk from the vodka.”
“Oh, dear!” Mamie said. “This is terrible.”
At that point, almost every one of them was holding a flute.
“What should I do, sir? I can’t just take the glasses from their hands.”
“They need a distraction,” Mamie said. “From the alcohol.”
“No,” Jennie said. She looked around the room. “They need a distraction from themselves.”
She smiled at Mr. Sitwell, gave him a small wink.
“I’ve got this.” Then, without a moment of hesitation, she walked to the front of the room and began to sing.
Everyone stopped what they were doing at once, riveted by the sound of her voice. She stood at the front of the room and without accompaniment let her voice glide and jump through a series of notes with such startling dexterity that all he could do was stare, amazed. And as he listened he felt as though she were speaking directly to him, calling out a song of comfort and grace and joy. He felt both calmed by her voice and somehow recognized—as if all the restlessness and confusion he’d tried to keep hidden inside him for so long had been found out, pulled to the surface, and then soothed. It was a beautiful voice and for the rest of his days, long after he’d forgotten both the words and the tune he would still remember what he’d felt at that moment, standing at the back of the Barclay’s parlor, listening to Jennie sing.
It provided enough of a distraction to allow Bart to remove all the flutes that contained alcohol and replace them with glasses of juice and soda water. Mr. Sitwell stood by the door listening to it, then at one o’clock, just before the ladies were to be seated for lunch, he walked out of the room to see if Mamie needed his assistance in the kitchen.
He shut the door behind him, thinking to himself that one day he would have to find the words to tell her how beautiful she was, how her song had made him feel. Then he looked down the hall and, through the window, saw Mrs. Lawson walking through the garden carrying a pitcher of milk.
Puzzled by this he walked outside, still carrying a tray of appetizers, surprised to find a group of a dozen men gathered together near the gazebo. Based on their manner of dress, they did not appear to be the type of men who usually came to socialize at the Barclay house. Ill-fitting suits of inferior quality, flat caps, rubber-soled bluchers. One of them was actually wearing work boots. In fact, there were only two who wore the type of clothing that Mr. Sitwell had come to associate with visitors to the house: Mr. Barclay and Mr. Pound.
“There you are, Sitwell. I was just about to send for you,” Mr. Barclay said as Mr. Sitwell entered the gazebo with his tray. As soon as he did several of the men rushed toward him and began hungrily stuffing skewers into their mouths.
“It seems Mr. Pound had something else in mind for today, in addition to his wife’s luncheon.”
“It only occurred to me yesterday.” Mr. Pound smiled. “I had my assistant put an ad in the paper, soliciting volunteers to sample my wafers so as to better ascertain their appeal.”
“Appeal?”
“It seems we are hosting a tasting party,” Mr. Barclay said. He leaned close to Mr. Sitwell’s ear. “Would you believe that he actually wanted this gathering to take place in my parlor? I had a time trying to convince him that these men would be more comfortable out here, where they would not disturb the ladies.”
Mrs. Lawson walked around the table with her pitcher of milk, a look of extreme discomfort on her face. She poured half a cup into each of the bowls. When she was finished she stood up stiffly.
“Will you be needing anything else?”
“No, that’s fine,” Mr. Sitwell said. “Perhaps it would be better for you to go back inside and see to the ladies.”
“As you wish,” she said between clenched teeth.
Mr. Sitwell looked at Mr. Pound. Having sampled the man’s wafers himself, he could not imagine much good would come from a tasting party.
He leaned close to Mr. Barclay’s ear. “Perhaps you should try to dissuade him.”
Mr. Barclay tittered. “Do you not think I haven’t already? These men will not eat his wafers. I have told him that many times. Their palates, saturated in garish spices and heavy seasonings, lack the capacity to appreciate the simplicity of his wafer. And even if they did appreciate it they still would not purchase it. What money they do have will never be expended on something so bland and banal as breakfast wafers. No, they will spend their money as they always have, on sport and cheap liquors.”
“Yes, well . . . my point is you are so close to concluding your negotiations. Surely we would not want anything to happen that might dampen the man’s enthusiasm.”
“Oh, have no fear, Mr. Sitwell. This man will not dampen. Whatever the outcome, I am quite certain it will only reinforce his resolve. He is that determined to prove me wrong.”
“Wrong, sir?”
Mr. Barclay looked at him and frowned. “Do you not understand what is going on here? The man is trying to humiliate me. Has been trying to do so ever since he arrived. That’s all this really is, the true purpose of inviting this rabble into my home.” He sighed. “My only compensation shall be the wager.”
“Wager, sir?”
“It was his idea. As I said, he is quite determined to prove me wrong.”
Mr. Sitwell nodded. A wager was a dangerous proposition so far as Mr. Barclay was concerned. The man had already lost so much over the years as a result of his gambling. All he could do was hope his employer realized that for once it behooved him to lose.
He was just about to remind Mr. Barclay of this when a voice called out to him.
“Don’t you look well in uniform.”
Mr. Sitwell turned around and, near the rear of the small crowd, saw a tall, angular copper-colored man in his sixties biting down on one of the skewers he had brought out on his tray. It was Mr. Boudreaux.
“What are you doing here?”
“I have come in response to an ad in the paper, in order to sample this man’s breakfast wafers. When I saw the location where the event would be held, of course I had to volunteer. I am to serve as representative of the Negro palate.” He smiled. “As you can imagine, many men were vying for the rare opportunity to dine at the Barclay house. But when I informed Mr. Pound of my connection to the house, my selection was all but assured.”
“Does Mr. Barclay know you are here?”
“Of course he does. He seemed to find it amusing. You, on the other hand, appear perturbed.”
“You should leave,” Mr. Sitwell said.
“I will not.” Mr. Boudreaux reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out a small flask, and took a sip. “I am to be compensated one dollar for the simple task of providing my honest opinion. And believe me I intend to earn it.”
“I’ll pay you two dollars to leave.”
Mr. Boudreaux reared his head in a look of feigned horror. “And deny myself the rare opportunity to eat at the Barclay table? You ask too much.” He shook his head. “Thirty-seven years I cooked for these people. And do you know that not once was I invited to sit down? But I suppose that is how it always is with these people. Always a place on the table. Never a place at it. Don’t let proximity fool you, in that respect, Mr. Sitwell.”
Then he heard a small pinging sound. When he turned around Mr. Pound was standing at the head of the table, tapping the side of his glass with a spoon. Mr. Boudreaux took his seat at the table with the other men.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Mr. Pound began. “I have asked you all here in order to provide you with a sample of an extraordinary new product, one which represents the latest in scientific research on health and rejuvenation. This research was conducted for the benefit of the most elite segment of society, those who have the time and resources to devote themselves to the cultivation of total fitness of body and mind. It has produced remarkable results and has therefore proven remarkably popular among them and my intention now is to expand its distribution to the masses, in the hopes that it may one day serve as an important bridge over the otherwise ever-widening chasm between the haves and the have-nots.
“You see, the fact is, despite all appearances to the contrary, many of the conflicts of our society today are not, in truth, about economics at all. They are about dietary deficiencies. Research has shown that the average worker consumes a diet that is dangerously low of everything save sugar, starch, and sodium. As a result, men such as yourselves are subject to a wide variety of diseases that are all but nonexistent among the class of men who employ you. Jaundice, pellagra, melancholia, scurvy . . . What if I were to tell you that all that is required to remove the threat of these diseases is a healthy diet? Yet I assure you it is the truth. Not to mention greatly reducing incidents of work-related injury, many of which are the results of poor circulation and the resultant fatigue. Now when a man prepares to put in a hard day of work at the factory—”
“I do not work in a factory,” one man called out. “I am a bookkeeper.”
“Yes, well . . . the point is that my wafers will keep you strong and healthy, your faculties sharp. In this manner, you will find yourselves equipped to realize your full potential as workers, nay, as citizens of this, our great democratic capitalist society.”
He glanced at Mr. Barclay and frowned.
“Now, some have suggested that it is only the elite who are capable of appreciating the value of good nutrition and that therefore only they are capable of reaping its benefits. But I say, who is more in need of these benefits than the working man? Who is more deserving? Is he not the one ultimately responsible for actually producing the vast cornucopia of products on which our economy rests? I truly believe that it is only through internal rejuvenation that one is truly able to realize one’s full potential. And I know of which I speak. Believe it or not, there was a time when people who live in houses such as this would have hesitated before welcoming me to their dinner table. . . .”
“Here it comes.” Mr. Barclay sighed.
“I came from a decent family but it was not until I went to college that I was made to understand that I did not come from a good one. Not good enough to work in some of my peers’ family businesses. Not good enough to marry some men’s daughters. Yet through diet and exercise, discipline and hard work, I stand before you now an extremely wealthy man. So wealthy in fact that, lo and behold, the same men who once would have denied me an invitation to sit at their tables now find themselves compelled to solicit my favor when in need of financial assistance.”
Mr. Barclay narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
“But, of course, in order to fully understand my meaning, you must eat. So go ahead—replenish.” Mr. Pound saluted the men with his own bowl of wafers. “To good health.”
The men looked down at the bowls set before them. After a brief hesitation, they picked up their spoons and began to eat. For a few moments the only sound was that of teeth crunching down on hard wafers while Mr. Pound looked on expectantly.
“Well? What do you say?”
“Good exercise for the jaw,” one man offered.
“Hearty,” said another. “That is a word that comes to mind. . . . One of several.”
Mr. Pound nodded. “And the taste? What do you make of the taste?”
Silence.
“I’ll be frank with you,” Mr. Pound said. “Some have suggested that this meal will not appeal to you. That your palates are not sufficiently—”
“May I be frank with you?” Mr. Boudreaux called out. He set down his bowl and dropped his spoon into it with a loud clank. “It tastes a bit like dirt.”
Mr. Pound stared. “I beg your pardon?”
“Not just any dirt, of course,” Mr. Boudreaux said. “High-quality dirt. Mineral rich soil.”
Mr. Sitwell narrowed his eyes. It was an appalling comment, but when he glanced at Mr. Barclay he saw something more appalling still: the man was smiling.
“It is terrible,” Mr. Boudreaux said. “Without question the worst thing I have ever put in my mouth.”
The bookkeeper, noticing Mr. Pound’s crestfallen expression, offered a suggestion in sympathy: “Perhaps if you were to add copious amounts of sugar to it. Might help blunt the effect.”
A few of the others nodded in agreement.
“Or even better,” Mr. Boudreaux suggested. “What if instead of serving it in milk you served it with this sauce, which I must say is, in marked contrast, delicious.” Mr. Boudreaux dipped a wafer in the sauce, popped it in his mouth, then smiled in exaggerated satisfaction. The gesture was quickly copied by several of the other men.
“Do you know, I think he’s on to something,” the bookkeeper said. He dipped a wafer in sauce. “Much better.”
Soon enough all the men were dipping their wafers into the sauce and contentedly chewing.
“There it is. . . . Delicious.”
Mr. Pound watched the men eat.
“So there we have it,” said the bookkeeper, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Kudos to you for taking an interest in the health of the working man. I appreciate scientific research, as I’m sure many of us do. I would like to eat better, that is certain. If what you say is true and the point is to get these so-called vitamins and minerals into the system, then what matter is the manner of delivery? Instead of serving it with milk, serve it in the sauce, better to hide the actual taste.”
Mr. Pound said nothing. He looked down at the half-empty bowl of sauce, picked up one of his wafers, and scraped it along the side of the interior. He bit down on it and began to chew.
Mr. Barclay smiled. “Never mind, Pound. I tell you this proves nothing. I tried to tell you before and you seemed to find my comments elitist, despite the fact that I have told you repeatedly that I was only referring to taste. Your product will do very well with those who have the underlying palate to appreciate . . . let us call it the subtleties of its flavor. Which is not to say I do not enjoy the taste personally. Quite the contrary. I intend to eat it every day, just as soon as it is available.”
Mr. Sitwell watched Mr. Pound chew on his wafer. Mr. Barclay’s behavior was not helping and, with so much at stake, he felt compelled to speak.
“Sir? If I may say something? I would like to point out that this is but a small sample of potential customers, randomly selected. Quite frankly, it is not at all clear to me that these men represent any population larger than themselves. You should not put too much trust in their opinions.”
He pointed to Mr. Boudreaux. “Certainly not his.”
Mr. Pound looked up. “You mean my Negro palate?”
“Yes, sir. Your Negro palate. He is the former cook here, no doubt embittered against your wafers due to resentment over the circumstances of his termination.”
“Termination?” Mr. Pound stared. “He told me he left this house on good terms.”
“Well, he has lied to you then. It is something he does with great frequency and only underscores my point. The man was terminated for drinking on the job.”
Mr. Pound turned to Mr. Barclay. “Is this true, Barclay?”
Mr. Barclay shrugged.
“And you did not think to inform me? Let me conduct my test without warning? Why, Barclay? So that you might win a wager? Are you really that desperate for money?”
Mr. Barclay stopped smiling. “Well, of course, the wager is but a small matter. I shall forfeit it at once.”
Mr. Pound looked at the bowl of sauce. “What is this?”
“My dear sir. It is a meat sauce,” Mr. Boudreaux shouted out.
“Is there more?”
“The rest was served to the ladies inside,” Mr. Sitwell said. “Had I known there would be additional guests, I would have prepared more, but—”
“You would have prepared?” Mr. Pound squinted. “You prepared this?”
Mr. Sitwell was quiet. His actual role in the house had been so confused lately; perhaps he had begun to confuse himself.
“No. I meant Mamie. She is the cook.”
Mr. Boudreaux snorted. “You seem a bit unsure, Sitwell.” He took another sip from his flask.
“Please do not make too much of this,” Mr. Barclay said.
“Of what? The fact that you sought to cheat me once again?”
“Cheat you? I have never sought to cheat you of anything.”
“Just like the Monte Carlo,” Mr. Pound said. “Or did you think I’d forgotten about your behavior then? How you sought to humiliate me?”
“Me? Humiliate you? This was all your idea. You are the one who invited these men into my home without a word of notice, who sought to compel my servants to wait on them. And do you think I don’t realize your true aim in doing so? What is this, Pound? Are you trying to renege on our deal? Because of some absurd test? We had a gentlemen’s agreement, but perhaps that means little to you.”
“No, Barclay. I am indeed a gentleman. And unlike you, a man of my word. I fully intend to honor our agreement. However, in view of what has happened here today, there will be some alterations with respect to terms.”
“Alterations? What does that mean?”
“We will discuss it tomorrow.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope.
“What is that?” Mr. Barclay said.
“Can’t you smell it? It’s money,” Mr. Pound sneered. “Like truffle pigs, the lot of you . . .”
“I beg your pardon?”
Mr. Pound turned to Mr. Sitwell.
“Go on now, distribute it to the men,” Mr. Pound commanded. “Then send them on their way. The tasting is over.”
Mr. Sitwell said nothing. It was as if Mr. Pound had forgotten who it was he actually worked for.
He turned to his employer.
“Do as the man says,” Mr. Barclay said and gave a dismissive wave of his hand.
Mr. Sitwell took the envelope stuffed with dollar bills. He distributed the money to the men, thanked them for their opinions, and told them their services were no longer needed. Mr. Boudreaux accepted his dollar with a laugh.
“Happy?” Mr. Sitwell frowned. “Of course you are.”
Mr. Boudreaux snorted. “How could I be happy when I still have the taste of that man’s revolting wafers in my mouth?” He slipped the dollar into the pocket of his jacket.
Mr. Sitwell shook his head. “You truly will not be satisfied until you have destroyed this house, will you?”
“Nonsense. If anyone shall be the destruction of this house, it is you. I think we both know that.”
“Everything I’ve done has been to protect the people who work here. I think we both know that as well.”
“Is that how you justify betraying me? Or do you think I did not realize who sent Mr. Barclay out to the larder that day?” He pulled a flask from his pocket and took a drink. “Go on and admit it. I know it was you. At first I assumed it was Mamie. But she is not that cunning and, besides, would never betray a fellow servant that way. But you know no such loyalty, do you? You knew about Mr. Barclay’s gambling debts, didn’t you? You knew someone was bound to be sent away in order to cut down household expenses. There were two cooks in the kitchen. And so you made sure it was me Barclay got rid of and not Mamie.”
“I did what was best for the house.”
“So you do admit it was you.”
Mr. Sitwell frowned. “As I said. I did what was best for the house. If Mr. Barclay had the slightest inkling of how things actually worked in the kitchen, he would have known it was for the best too. But, of course, he has no idea what goes on back there. You and Barclay have always gotten along better; he finds you amusing while he finds Mamie abrasive. But the truth is everything would have fallen apart if he had fired her instead of you. All of us would have been out on the street. Deep down, even you must realize that.”
“What I realize is that I should have sent you away years ago, when I had the chance. Instead I took pity on you, that was my mistake. I banished you to the yard.”
“You did not banish me out of pity. You did it as a punishment.”
Mr. Sitwell watched him take another sip from his flask.
“I want you to leave,” Mr. Sitwell said. “I want you to leave now.”
Then he went back to passing out dollar bills. By the time he was finished, Mr. Boudreaux was gone.
When he returned to the kitchen Mamie and Mrs. Lawson were arguing.
“What is the problem?”
“The fact that you have to ask merely proves my point,” Mrs. Lawson said. “This place is a disgrace. You and Mamie have rendered what was once a fine house into little more than a lunatic asylum.”
“It is temporary.”
“Is that right? With you as the butler? You are entirely unqualified for such a position. But all of you behave as if managing a household was some sort of game. When it is not a game. It is a profession. One that I take seriously.”
“Mrs. Lawson, I know you are upset about being asked to wait on men of the same class as yourself. But I assure you, Mr. Barclay had no idea they were coming here. In fact, he was just as disturbed by it as you, just better at hiding it. Still, he should have known better than to ask you to set the table. I suppose it did not occur to him that this was something both he and his parlor maid have in common. You are both snobs.”
Mrs. Lawson stared at him. At first she looked hurt, then she looked angry.
“Snob? Is that what you call it? Because I take myself seriously, and do not want to see my profession reduced to a joke? I understand that this is just a game to you, but it is not to me. It is my life.”
She removed her apron.
“What are you doing?”
“I will not be taking orders from you.”
“Mrs. Lawson. Please—”
“No. I’ve had enough. I’m tired, Mr. Sitwell. Tired of coming in here every day, waiting to be sent home, either as a result of Mamie’s caprice or simply because Mr. Barclay can no longer afford to pay me. I have worked in this house for thirty-five years, have given good service, have always tried to conduct myself with the utmost professionalism. I have also put up with more than you could possibly imagine. Well, I won’t do it anymore. I can’t, my nerves won’t tolerate it. I deserve better and you know it.”
“Yes. We all do,” Mr. Sitwell said. “Mrs. Lawson, I’m sorry. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. I did not realize my comments would offend you.”
“Of course you didn’t. That’s precisely my point. How could you have? Because you are not the butler, Mr. Sitwell. You are the groundskeeper.”
She handed him her apron.
“Good-bye, Mr. Sitwell. And good luck.”
And just like that, she was gone.
* * *
It was not until two hours later, after the ladies had left and the remaining servants had cleaned the gazebo and dining room, that Mr. Sitwell realized Mr. Boudreaux had not, in fact, left the premises. Mac found him on the floor of the larder, nestled in his old hiding place and snoring loudly. The man was pitifully drunk. When Mr. Sitwell tried to revive him he realized he would require assistance getting him out of there. But there were very few left to help him. Mr. Whitmore, after driving the Pounds back to their hotel and returning the car, had left for the day, completely unaware that his uncle was still there. Mamie was in the kitchen but was so angry about Mrs. Lawson’s departure, which she saw as a betrayal, that it seemed extremely unwise to ask her to assist in carting her once-again-intoxicated former supervisor out of the larder. Mac was still hobbling about on his injured leg and Frederick, still rattled by his experience in the cell, had not been able to bring himself to leave the premises since Mr. Sitwell retrieved him from the fairgrounds three days before. That left only Bart or Jennie.
He chose Bart.
“Bart? I need you to help me with something.”
“Right away, sir. What’s going on?”
“Mr. Boudreaux is in the larder. I need to get him out of there and off the premises.”
“Alright, sir. You can count on me. Just let me get my coat.”
Mr. Sitwell went back to the larder. He managed to hoist Boudreaux onto his feet, then slung him onto his back and dragged him into the garden. When Bart came out of the house they each took one of Mr. Boudreaux’s arms and carried him all the way to the omnibus stop. When they let him go he slumped to the ground, face forward. The man was so intoxicated he did not even have the ability to put his hands out to break his own fall. They sat him upright on the sidewalk by leaning him against a lamppost.
“What should we do?” Bart asked.
Mr. Sitwell shook his head. It was tempting to leave him there. But when he looked down the block, the new security detail was already watching them. It seemed imperative to get the man on the omnibus and far enough away that he could not cause a scene by wandering the Avenue, trying to make his way back to the Barclay house.
“We’ll have to take him home.”
When the omnibus arrived they hoisted him up once more, got him into the car, and sat him down in an empty seat. Mr. Sitwell sat beside him, leaned his head against the window, and shut his eyes.
“Shame, isn’t it?” Mr. Boudreaux said.
“Many things fit that description. What are you referring to?”
“Myself, of course,” Mr. Boudreaux said. “I mean look at me. For thirty-seven years I worked for that man. Only to be tossed out into the street like a dog. What does that tell you about the Barclays?”
“Very little,” Mr. Sitwell said. “Mr. Barclay is our employer. We work for him because it is a mutually beneficial arrangement. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Is that right? Then what does it say about us? That you would betray me to a man like Mr. Barclay, after all I’d done for you.”
“You never did anything for me.”
“I gave you a name!” Mr. Boudreaux shouted. A few people across the aisle looked up at the sound of his voice.
“Stop making so much noise,” Mr. Sitwell said. “Stop causing so much trouble.”
“What is he going on about?” Bart asked.
“Ignore him,” Mr. Sitwell said. “The man is intoxicated.” He glared at Mr. Boudreaux. “Stop this. Can’t you see you are confusing Bart?”
“That is not my intention. I am trying to do the opposite. I’m trying to unconfuse him.” Mr. Boudreaux’s head wobbled as he leaned forward and stared at Bart with red, rheumy eyes. “Do you not find it interesting that Mr. Sitwell is now the butler in that house, considering that he once tried to kill the previous one?”
“Shut up!”
“What are you talking about?” Bart asked.
“Exactly what I said. He once tried to poison Mr. Thomas. It happened a long time ago, when Mr. Sitwell was still a child, just a little older than you. One of Mr. Barclay’s guests got a little too forward with Mamie at a party, back when she was still a chambermaid. It was hardly the first time such a thing had happened; quite frankly, any competent maid might have understood it as part of the job. From what I understand, Mr. Thomas told her as much. She must have complained to Sitwell who in turn complained to me. I told him I had nothing to do with it. He asked me to speak to Barclay about allowing her to come work in the kitchen and I told him that I did not want that dumb girl in my kitchen, did not need another apprentice because, so far as I knew, I already had one. Sitwell himself. Instead of being grateful this put him in a rage. Later that night, I found him in the kitchen mixing some strange concoction of poison he had planned to put in Mr. Thomas’s soup. Apparently, his idea was that if I would not help him he would solve the problem himself, by getting rid of Mr. Thomas. He told me what he was doing, he told me why, told me it was his mother who had taught him how. I had to give him a good whipping to snap him out of it. When at last he calmed down he was inconsolable about the idea of Mamie finding out his murderous plan. It struck me that perhaps, instead of sending him away, the greater punishment would be to banish him to the yard so he could look upon the house every day and know perfectly well why he was no longer welcome inside.”
Bart leaned forward. “Is that true, Mr. Sitwell?”
“No.” Mr. Sitwell shook his head. “It is not.”
“Of course it’s true,” Mr. Boudreaux said. “That is the true story of why Mr. Sitwell was banished to the yard.”
Bart frowned. “I meant the other part. The part about someone being forward with Miss Mamie.”
The car lurched to a stop. A half-dozen men got on, and when the driver yelled, “Push back,” Mr. Sitwell and Bart stood up, grabbed ahold of Mr. Boudreaux’s sleeves, and began making their way toward the rear of the car. There was an empty seat just in front of the rear door, but when he tried to deposit Mr. Boudreaux into it, Bart shook his head and continued to pull on Mr. Boudreaux’s arm.
“What are you doing?”
“We’ve got to get off. Now.” He nodded toward the front of the car. “It’s the boardwalk man.”
Mr. Sitwell turned his head and saw several men standing by the driver, waiting to pay their fare. One of them might have been the man from the boardwalk but he wasn’t sure.
“Don’t look, sir,” Bart said. “Just get off.”
Bart was already walking down the rear steps. Because they were both holding on to Mr. Boudreaux, Mr. Sitwell found himself being dragged out the door with him.
“Quickly,” Bart said as the three of them stumbled off the car. The doors closed behind them and the car lurched back into motion. They set Mr. Boudreaux down on the curb and watched the omnibus leave without them.
“Are you sure that was him?”
“Entirely sure.”
“Well, I was not sure. And even if it was . . . There was no need to panic like that. We have every right to be on the train. . . .”
A woman walked by carrying a parcel of groceries. She stared at Mr. Boudreaux on the sidewalk. Mr. Boudreaux smiled and, by way of greeting, leaned forward and vomited on the pavement.
“Filthy wretch,” the woman sneered. Then spit on the ground. Mr. Sitwell watched her hurry down the block then looked around and realized where they were.
It was the Magazine stop.
He looked at Bart. He started to scold him but could tell by the boy’s face that he already realized his mistake. He looked petrified.
“Never mind. It will be alright.” He looked up at the darkening sky. “Hear me, Bart? Another bus should be along any minute. Keep your head down and just wait for the next car.”
An old man walked by, a startled expression on his face.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the man whispered. Then hurried down the block.
Mr. Sitwell glanced back at the sidewalk behind them. A small crowd of people were gathering near the front of a saloon on the corner, watching them.
“Perhaps he’s right,” Mr. Sitwell said. “Perhaps it’s best to keep moving.”
He hoisted Mr. Boudreaux back onto his feet.
“Come on, Bart.”
But Bart shook his head. “No, sir.”
“What do you mean ‘no’?” A few of the men in front of the saloon had started walking toward them. “Grab his arm and come along quickly. We’ve got to go.”
Again Bart shook his head. “No. I’ll not run from these people.”
“You most certainly will,” Mr. Sitwell said. A rock whizzed past his shoulder. “You damn well will run, if I tell you to—”
“You misunderstand me. I don’t run. Remember?”
And only then did Mr. Sitwell remember the boy’s damaged foot.
Another rock struck Mr. Sitwell squarely on his back.
Bart watched the crowd in front of the saloon. “Look to me like those men mean trouble. But don’t worry, sir. You just take Mr. Boudreaux, go on ahead without me. I’ll hold them off.”
“Hold them off? What are you talking about?”
“I took precautions.” Bart winked. He opened his coat. Sticking out of the inside pocket was the antique starter pistol from Mrs. Barclay’s cabinet.
“What the hell are you doing with that?”
“Precautions. Like what you told Frederick.”
“Are you insane? Do you want to get killed? Don’t you realize where we are?”
“Know exactly where we are. That’s why I brought it. Just in case.”
Mr. Sitwell looked up and, to his great relief, saw the headlights of a car moving toward them.
“Give me that pistol. Give it to me at once.”
“No, sir. Won’t do it.” He pulled the gun out of his pocket “Y’all two just get on that car.”
Another rock sailed past them. “Stop it, Bart. This is not a penny novel. You are not Cherokee Red.”
The omnibus pulled up to the curb just as the crowd surged forward. Mr. Sitwell let go of Mr. Boudreaux. The man fell to the pavement as Mr. Sitwell snatched the gun out of Bart’s hand. Mr. Sitwell shoved Bart inside the car. He slipped the pistol into his own pocket and dragged Mr. Boudreaux inside.
The driver looked at them and then at the crowd gathered on the sidewalk behind them. He shut the doors quickly.
Mr. Sitwell reached into his pocket. His hands were shaking as he took out a coin to pay their fare.
“What are you three doing in the Magazine?” the driver said. “Trying to start a riot?”
“We got off on the wrong stop,” Mr. Sitwell said, still breathless. “Thank you. For closing the door.”
The driver frowned.
“Don’t bother thanking me, nigger. I’m just doing my job. Now push back.” He nodded toward the rear of the car. “And I mean all the way back.”