Free Miss Emily by Nuala O'Connor Page B

freezing.”
    â€œThat would be a help to me. It’s a curse when the water goes to ice.” The low winter sun makes his hair glow. “Well, I’d better be getting on.” I make to go back to the kitchen. “The meat and chestnuts won’t roast themselves.”
    â€œAda, would you be at all interested in going to the circus withme? The Van Amburgh will be on the common from Friday, and it’s meant to be a spectacle.”
    â€œI heard that, all right.”
    â€œHave you heard the song?” He pulls himself up straight and begins to chant:
    â€œâ€˜Van Amburgh is the man, who goes to all the shows,
    He goes into the lion’s cage, and tells you all he knows;
    He sticks his head in the lion’s mouth, and keeps it there awhile,
    And when he pulls it out again, he greets you with a smile.’ ”
    I giggle and clap, surprised by his boldness, surprised that he knows such a song at all. Daniel bows.
    â€œDoes your man really put his head in the lion’s mouth?” I ask.
    â€œI have no clue. Why don’t we go along and see?”
    â€œI’ll have to ask Mrs. Dickinson about finishing early on Friday.”
    â€œWell, let me know. I’ll be around the yard all this week.” Daniel tips his cap and strolls away.
    I examine the gait of his long body as he saunters off toward the barn. He is a manly man, no doubt about it. I smile to myself, thinking he must know that I am watching him go, that I am taking him in. I wait until he is inside the barn before I dip back into the house to be welcomed by the kitchen’s pleasant heat.

    The night is biting. The New England cold is not at all like the cold in Dublin; it is sharper and meaner altogether. Earlier the rags Iwashed and pinned froze on the clothesline; they hung, stiff little flags, waving dully, the very opposite of summer bunting. How forlorn the rags looked after all my work to make them usable again.
    But it is not washing or work of any kind I want to think of now, ambling up Main Street beside Daniel, in the thick of the throng that makes for the common and Van Amburgh’s tent. A drone of voices drifts above the crowd; people seem excited, a little anxious, maybe. I have my Navarino bonnet on and some old kid gloves of Miss Emily’s—she said my woolen mittens were too coarse for walking out with a man. I look up at Daniel; he is handsome in that Irish way—he has a bit of a jaw on him, but that is balanced out by good, even features and generous hair. It occurs to me that Mammy would like him, and the thought pleases me.
    Mrs. Dickinson gave me a talk this morning, summoning me to her bedroom for all two minutes of it. Her room—if possible— is even sparser than my own, with little more than bed and bureau. I stood a long time waiting for her to speak; I wondered if she expected me to divine what was on her mind.
    â€œRouge spoils the complexion,” she said at last. “Don’t wear any.” She stared at me, and I stared at the tallow of her bedside candle, which was running. I wanted to pinch the wick or blow out the flame, to stem the flow. “Only vulgar women paint themselves,” she said. And then, “You may leave.”
    It wasn’t in my plan to wear rouge—it makes girls look wanton, I think—but after she spoke to me I felt like going down to Cutler’s to buy a pot. Just for pig iron. But I wasn’t sure that Daniel would like to see me painted up, so I didn’t.
    Daniel puts his hand to my back now to guide me into the circus tent. Truth be told, I am wary, though it takes a bit to scareme. The place is dim, and it stinks of dirty straw and manure. The men are rowdy, shouting to one another; the women are quiet, looking at everything. An Irish lad I recognize from about the town lunges in front of us. He is a tall chap, well made, and he grins a lot.
    â€œThere you are, miss,” he says to