Free The Secrets of Mary Bowser by Lois Leveen Page A

on the third floor flew open, and a woman’s voice chirped down to us.
    “Why, Miss Van Lew, I’m a-waiting you up here. Don’t be shy none, come on up.” The gray-haired head slipped back inside, and the window slammed shut.
    When the driver reappeared, Miss Bet instructed him about which baggage to bring upstairs. Then she led me inside, tilting her broad skirts this way and that to fit through the door and down the short hallway to the stairwell at the middle of the building. I’d spent countless hours up and down the servants’ stairs of the Van Lew house, which were every bit as narrow and dark as these tight steps. But Miss Bet was unused to such confined spaces. She kept reaching her hand to the wall to right herself as we climbed.
    “Come on dears, you almost here,” Mrs. Upshaw called as we turned onto the final half-flight of steps. As we reached the landing, she held open the apartment door with one hand and urged us inside with a grand sweep of the other, nodding like a poppet-doll and chittering “Hello” and “Howdy do” all the while.
    The tiny parlor was crowded with shabby furnishings playing at respectability. The upholstered chair and sofa were threadbare. Faded rag rugs of assorted sizes and shapes lined the floor. A motley collection of gaudy trinkets, many of which showed chips or cracks, cluttered the end table. On the mantel of the fireplace sat an ornate clock, its hands immobile at five minutes past twelve. In a corner by the window stood a ladies’ worktable stacked high with a pile of folded fabrics and topped with needle case, scissor case, and pincushion—the sewing work Miss Bet had told me my landlady took in. Along the other side of the room, a small bed was made up for day use. And in the midst of it all was Mrs. Upshaw, proudly submitting to our inspection as she gushed her stream of welcome.
    A small woman about Mistress Van Lew’s age, she chatted constantly, never pausing for a response, until at last she disappeared to make us some tea. Once Mrs. Upshaw was gone, Miss Bet wagged her fan back and forth so furiously, she seemed to be trying to flap her way right out of the wearisome room.
    Miss Bet might be imperious, but at least she was familiar. Sitting in my stiff new clothes and listening to the thuds of the cabman hoisting my trunk up the stairway, the clop of footsteps in the apartment overhead, and the muffled noises Mrs. Upshaw was making at the back of the house, I missed my own world so. Part of me wanted to throw my arms around Miss Bet and beg her not to leave me.
    But the idea of clinging to Miss Bet, of all people, was ridiculous. I held myself still until Mrs. Upshaw returned, then kept my eyes low as we drank down the weak tea.
    “My cousins must be quite anxious for my arrival,” Miss Bet said, the very moment the driver brought in my things. “Mary, I shall call for you in the morning to take you to Miss Douglass’s school. I’m sure you and Mrs. Upshaw will have a nice time getting acquainted in the meanwhile.” She nodded stiffly and followed the cabman out.
    With Miss Bet gone, Mrs. Upshaw chattered more than ever. She wanted to put me at ease, I guess, but her prattling set me on edge. “Anything the matter, dear?” she asked finally.
    Everything was the matter. But I forced myself to shake my head. “I’m just tired from the journey. May I see the rest of your lovely home?”
    “Our lovely home. You gonna have a fine time living here.” She gestured to the next room. “Here’s where you sleep. The bed’s real feather, you know.”
    I’d never slept on anything but a husk pallet. My heart leapt at the thought of having my own featherbed. But it fell again when I entered the narrow, windowless room and saw the scuffed wood frame slung with a thin, lumpy mattress.
    “Ain’t that something?” Mrs. Upshaw spoke as though she were showing off the Queen of Sheba’s own boudoir. “Have a try, dear. No being shy round here.”
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