Outrun the Moon(27)

Yet.

“Oh, hello.” Ruby Beauregard unfolds herself from a wingback chair. She was so quiet, I didn’t notice her sitting nearby.

“Hello. Don’t you have to practice for the Spring Concert?”

“Headmistress dismissed me for singing out of tune, but I didn’t mind.” A mischievous grin lights her face. “I was out of tune.”

Her eyes fall to the book she’s holding, Pays de France. To my knowledge, geography is not a subject taught here. “Are you planning to travel?”

“Oh, no.” She replaces the book on a shelf carefully so that its spine evenly matches the others, then softly adds, “I mean, not unless I’m married, of course.”

I notice her use of the word unless rather than until, as if there was a question of her ever entering that blessed state so revered at St. Clare’s. Her hips are wide, the kind that Ma says indicate a pod that has many peas.

“I plan to travel one day, married or unmarried,” I tell her.

She blinks. “But, it’s not proper for young women.”

My marketing plan crumples a little in my hand. “Women were born with eyes and feet, same as men. Why shouldn’t we see the world if we want to?” My thoughts stray back to Tom. How could he not prefer someone who wants to view the world from above in a balloon, rather than someone content to remain below?

Ruby’s gaze falls away, and her carriage weakens. “Maybe it is different in China.” She flashes me a smile. “Minnie Mae will be looking for me.” She shuffles from the room, leaving behind the scent of rosemary.

I don’t know why it surprises me that the Southerner and I share something in common—a desire to see the world, hampered by the world’s desire not to see us without a husband on our arms. We are both girls after all, born into the same social girdle that comes with having a womb, despite our cultural differences. In many ways, I have more in common with the students of St. Clare’s than I have with my Chinese brethren.

Sliding into a writing desk, I try to put Ruby from my mind and focus on tonight’s meeting. My analysis is sound, but the association could still refuse. Last year, they turned away a purveyor of Turkish delights because they were “against Chinese custom.” How would I get around that objection?

Mrs. Lowry says that in order to fill a need, one must understand the customer. Farmers in Michigan need a sturdier kind of cow than farmers in the milder climates of Texas, where she lives.

So, what things are important to the Chinese? Family. Food. Funerals.

Funerals. I jerk upright, banging my knee against the apron of the walnut table. That’s it.

If Monsieur Du Lac wrapped the chocolates in white paper, he could sell them as offerings to the ancestors, maybe even mold the chocolate into coins. Chinese buy all sorts of luxuries for the dead to ensure a comfortable afterlife: cigarettes, pomelos, why not chocolate?

I sweep up my papers, the sweet taste of victory already on my tongue.





11



AT THE APPOINTED TIME OF SIX O’CLOCK, I wait at the curb for my ride to the Benevolent Association, rehearsing my argument one more time.

The thought of seeing Tom ties an extra band around my stomach. Have the few days apart worked in my favor or against? Maybe Ling-Ling has already wormed her way into his heart, that is if her ma has not knocked him over the head and dragged him off like a prized goat.

I scold the worries away. As Ma likes to say, you cannot control the wind, but you can control your sails.

The great door of St. Clare’s opens behind me. Elodie emerges in a pinstriped suit with ruffles around the wrists and neck and a smart gray hat on her head. I’m suddenly conscious of my uniform, which looks drab as a feed sack by comparison.

She sashays down the stoop and glides to a spot a few feet away, not acknowledging me. What is she doing here?

“Going out?” I ask.

She rummages in her beaded handbag and takes out a mirror. A pearl ring, delicate as a tear, adorns her gloved finger. “I’m coming with you. Papa made me second-in-command with executive authority. I am entitled to know everything that happens with the business, even the unsavory aspects.” A smarmy grin wings up her face. Seeing me squirm has quickly become a favorite pastime of hers.

Unsinkable as a cork, I remind myself.

The blond car finally sails to the curb, but Monsieur is not inside. William calls over the engine, “I’m sorry, ladies, but he was called to New York. Wants you to reschedule the meeting.”

I gape. “New York? How long will he be gone?”

“Hard to say. The express takes a few days each way. He had pressing business to attend to.”

Elodie rolls her eyes. “Right. Business . . .” she mutters.

My heels sink into the pavement. “But we . . . we had an arrangement,” I say lamely. The sweet taste of victory tastes more like bitter melon. “The association will be waiting for us. I can’t not show up.” I cringe, thinking about their reactions.

William frowns in sympathy. He draws out a wooden box with satin ribbon and offers it to Elodie. “He says he’s sorry about your birthday and that you should still see Carmen. He had these truffles made for you.”

It’s her birthday? Elodie doesn’t bother to take the box but instead turns on her heel to march back to the house. My anger flares. Tom went through a great deal of trouble to get this appointment. We’re going to keep it, Monsieur or not.