Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(35)
I am surrounded by nothing but suicidal muttonheads.
Momma, I do believe that the manners and etiquette taught at Miss Preston’s may be some of the best instruction in the whole state of Maryland, if not all of the United States. Honestly, where else do Negro girls get to truly learn their place: serving the fine white folks of the world and keeping them safe?
Chapter 13
In Which I Attend a Rather Eventful Dinner
The mayor’s iron pony picks us up at half past four. Dinner is to begin at five thirty with cocktails, and Miss Anderson doesn’t want to be late. There’s murder in her eyes when she talks about how grand the mayor’s dinner is going to be. And the wide smile she gives when Katherine and I climb into the passenger compartment does not help the anxiety clawing its way through my guts. Not one bit.
Katherine is chatty as a magpie on the way to the mayor’s house, and even Miss Duncan looks a bit fatigued from attempting to share in her good humor. Katherine, however, is plain radiant. Her gold-streaked curls are swept into an Attendant’s bun high on her head. Escaped ringlets soften the harsh style. Her Attendant’s formal dress is a pale pink that compliments her golden skin perfectly and falls to her knees; the undertrousers are a darker pink, and the stockings and boots are cream. Her white gloves, which I refused to wear because they made my hands feel clumsy, are effortlessly elegant. A jab of jealousy hits me every time I look over at her. She looks like some kind of delicious confection. Nobody needs to be that pretty, especially in silly Attendant’s garb.
My dark thoughts are misplaced, though. It’s only because of Katherine’s help that I ain’t looking too bad myself. My Attendant’s garb is done in shades of green. The dress is an emerald that sets off the deep bronze of my skin in a very nice way, while the undertrousers are a lighter shade, my stockings striped green and white, and my boots brown. I’ve never had such a lovely dress, the fit snug enough to let me fight yet modest enough not to cause scandal. My sickles—the fancy ones from Red Jack, not the ungainly practice ones from school—are strapped into a fine leather belt tooled to carry such things, the holster on the belt empty, since Mayor Carr doesn’t much care for guns in his estate. There are even pockets sewn into the skirt, a request the dressmaker was happy to oblige, and I’ve hidden Tom Sawyer in one just in case I find time to read some later. Katherine helped me do something with my stubborn curls, using a pair of hot tongs to subdue the mess into the required Attendant’s bun.
When she’d showed me what she’d done in the mirror, I’d laughed. “Well, look at that. I look right proper.”
“Don’t worry, Jane, you could never pass for proper,” Katherine had said, her tone teasing instead of harsh. Wonder of all wonders, I do believe we are becoming friends.
We arrive at the mayor’s estate safe and sound, which is somewhat of a surprise, what with all of Katherine’s talking and what I am certain is impending doom in Miss Anderson’s treacherous eyes. We get out, and Katherine takes a deep breath. “Jane, look at it. It’s breathtaking.”
Mayor Carr’s house is quite impressive. The barrier fence that surrounds the grounds is made of wrought iron at least ten feet tall, and I wonder how Jackson was able to scale such a high fence. Dogs patrol the grass around the property, sniffing the ground. I’ve heard of such dogs, they’re similar to the dogs the slave patrols used to hunt down runaways in the old days. These dogs are trained to alert on shamblers, barking loudly and getting right vicious when they smell the undead. But right now? They just look like normal floppy-eared dogs.
Still, I make a point not to get too close.
The house itself is monstrously huge. It’s equally as big as our school, but tobacco fields, not woodland, surround the back acreage. The mayor’s house is newer and made of a white stone that rises up four stories, the roof topped by a plethora of cupolas and gables, looking very fancy and imposing. But there’s something else here that catches my eye, something even more impressive than the size of the house.
Electric lights.
I’ve seen electricity before, of course—word of Mr. Edison’s experiments in New Jersey had made their way down the Eastern Seaboard and there had even been a demonstration a year or so back here in Baltimore. I’ve never heard of them installed in a private home, though, and yet here they are, lighting up the pathway to the entrance. I couldn’t help but stare.
This is the house of a man used to being followed and obeyed, a man who has enough people between him and the shambler threat to never feel fear.
Miss Anderson and Miss Duncan lead the way up the front walk. Katherine and I keep a few paces behind, as taught. She walks with the grace and carriage of a true lady; I slouch along, hands resting on the hilts of my sickles, ready to draw them at the first sign of trouble.
Both of our instructors wear sedate, dove-gray dresses, but even the plain attire ain’t enough to detract from Miss Duncan’s beauty; Mr. Redfern’s eyes settle on her as soon as we enter the sitting room where most of the attendees have gathered for drinks. Coming over to greet our party, he’s the spitting image of the civilized savage the papers are always discussing: well-cut jacket, fashionable waistcoat, hair pulled back in a queue, well-worn boots, and a Bowie knife strapped to his waist. The perfect combination of gentleman and ruthless killer, just like the main character in some frontier adventure. He wears it like a costume, and I get the feeling Mr. Redfern also likes to use the low expectations of people to his advantage. Either way, it is most definitely a style that works for him, judging from the way Miss Duncan lights up. While Miss Anderson and Mr. Redfern exchange pleasantries, I note that he wears the knife on his right side. Mr. Redfern is left-handed, an interesting fact that I file away for later.