Free The Gallery by Laura Marx Fitzgerald Page B

made
more
sense.
    So let the lady of the house lie in bed, eat porridge, read about half men–half goats, and stare at pictures of watermelons and alligator pears. Whatever the source of Mrs. Sewell’s troubles, I wouldn’t discover it in all the myths of Ancient Greece and Rome combined.
    At least, I was pretty sure.
    â€”
    â€œLand, the racket, Martha!” Ma flew into the Sewell music salon, where I was cleaning the piano’s keys, approximating Gershwin (I thought) in the process. “Though at least the noise led me straight to you. I need you to run an errand.”
    I had my apron off before Ma could even giveme a destination. After a week of rain, the light glimmered and danced outside, and it was exactly the kind of day I would have faked a stomachache at school and headed to the park or the beach or simply anywhere.
    â€œI see the schemes in your eyes, young lady, and you’ll be wise to check them right there before they meet up with your brain.” Ma took the apron and looped it back over my neck, spinning me around and tying the strings together with a yank. “You’ll be in an official capacity, a representative of the Sewell household, and I expect you to comport yourself accordingly.”
    I loosened and retied the strings around what Daddo called my jelly belly. “All right, all right. Where to?”
    â€œMr. Sewell needs this note hand delivered to the Dukes. It’s got to get there right away, before Mr. Duke leaves for their golf game. Mr. Sewell can’t make it, you see. It’s just a bit farther up Fifth Avenue, across from the museum.” She stared in my eyes. “Shouldn’t take you more than fifteen minutes. I’d go myself, but I must go downtown and give the grocer a what’s what. And Alphonse . . .”
    â€œMa, I’ve got it!” I snatched the letter out of her hand. “Across from the museum, easy.”
    Ma took a deep breath, looking like she’d already regretted the decision. “Can I trust you on this, Martha?” She looked over her shoulder, and I knew she was wondering if the silent-but-compliant Magdalena was within shouting distance.
    â€œOf course!” I jumped in her line of sight, to block any further thoughts of Magdalena. “Just a trot up Fifth Avenue and back. What could be easier?”
    â€”
    To my credit, I skipped straightaway to the Duke place, strangely pleased to find their fairy-tale mansion slightly smaller than the Sewells’. But any haloed grandeur I felt was in my own mind alone, because the footman refused to even open the front door to my maid’s uniform. He met me instead at the servants’ entrance, where he took the letter between two fingers and coldly closed the door in my face.
    But even that couldn’t get me down. It was one of those delicious fall days in the grand finale of the season: sun beaming through the branches, just a few golden leaves left clinging, its red and orange sisters already carpeting the ground. I inhaled deeply, drawing in the toasted scent of sunbaked leaves, the smoke of fireplaces coming back to life. The clean, cold bite of winter was waiting in the wings.
    Across the street from the Dukes’ was CentralPark, where I could take the long way home through the tree-lined paths and promenades. Hop through a game of jump rope. Maybe get a last Italian ice before the pushcart vendors closed up for the season. With Ma oblivious downtown, there was no rush.
    There was only one thing standing between me and the park: The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
    The museum, an imposing matron of a building, took up nearly two blocks along the other side of Fifth Avenue, guarding any view of the park. As I strategized which side to go around, it felt as if it were daring me to pass, like a playground bully exacting a toll of milk money.
    I deliberated at the foot of its grand stone steps, waves of well-dressed art lovers streaming