on the stones. “You’ve got a fancy dinner tonight and here you’ve left most of your hair on the floor.”
Accustomed to the teasing, Grace kept her face blank.
“No, girl,” Croomes went on. “I’m not having a go at you. Heedson gave me a list of what he claims is the ‘well-mannered ones,’ and I’ve got to get you looking respectable. You get a new dress and everything. I think you’ll even get to have some silverware. Make sure you hold your fork right, now. And no elbows on the table.” Croomes laughed at her own joke and slapped Grace’s backside on her way out.
“You too, farmer’s—” Croomes’s voice broke off in the hallway as she reconsidered. “Mrs. Clay,” she finished. “You’re on display often enough to know the drill. God knows how Heedson’s deemed you respectable, the way you go about swearing to tear the eyes out of God-fearing folk.”
“If you fear God, that’s more to do with your actions than mine,” Mrs. Clay said.
Croomes huffed and her footsteps receded down the hallway before Mrs. Clay appeared at Grace’s door. “I tried to squirrel away a bite for you last night, but they were watching me pretty close,” she said.
Mrs. Clay pulled the younger girl’s hand into the crook of her own elbow. “So what’s this dinner, do you think?” she asked, knowing full well that there would be no answer. “I don’t see any room for kindness in this place, but let’s put a good face on it and see, shall we?”
There was silverware. Grace was unprepared for how much it set her back to see a table set properly, and she stood still in the doorway for a moment before entering. Mrs. Clay gave her a slight push to get her into the dining room, followed by two other women she didn’t know, faces pink from fresh scrubbings and wet buns pulled tightly back from clean scalps. Already seated were three male patients, who rose when the women entered, although one of them lagged slightly behind the others, not accustomed to the tradition.
“Mr. Baltingham, Mr. Crow,” Mrs. Clay said congenially, nodding toward them before she sat down. Grace followed her cue, lowering her eyes when the men glanced toward her and staring at the plate setting in front of her. It was heavy and awkward, nothing like the slight china she’d had at home, but it meant that there would be real food to eat, not only bread to grab and run with.
“I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met,” Mrs. Clay said to the third man, who reddened under her attention. “It seems we’re allowed to pretend to be civilized this evening. You may as well tell me your name.”
“Moore, ma’am,” he said.
“Hello then, Mr. Moore,” she said. “I am Mrs. Clay and these ladies are Miss Holstein, Mrs. Ubry, and . . .” Her hand fluttered to Grace’s shoulder for one second. “I’m sorry, I don’t know our young friend’s name.”
It pulsed in Grace’s throat for one second, the syllable that meant her. Yet it remained halfway up, lodged like a chunk of her supper from the evening before.
There were murmured hellos around the table, and then Mr. Baltingham cleared his throat. “What’s this about, then? Anybody know?”
“I believe you’re all going to be used like I am, shining examples of—” Mrs. Clay began, when the dining room door blew open and Dr. Heedson came in, a half-empty wineglass in hand and one of the cooks at his heels with a tray of ham.
Heedson took his seat at the head of the table, to Grace’s right. “Looks like you’re all here, then,” he said.
The cook moved between Mrs. Clay and Grace to set the ham-laden platter on the table, and the wafting scent filled Grace’s mouth with saliva. In her belly, the baby awakened and kicked hard, its tiny foot striking the edge of the table.
“I’ve handled the introductions, Dr. Heedson,” Mrs. Clay began.
“I believe I’ll do my own version, nonetheless,” Heedson said, unfolding his napkin into his lap before pointing at the patients in turn. “Moore here is a syphilitic; Crow went after his wife with a pitchfork after catching her in the haymow with his brother—which hardly makes him crazy, to my mind. Baltingham’s an alcoholic, Ubry’s a nymphomaniac, Holstein insists that her menstrual blood is made of demons, Mrs. Clay is a cast-off wife, and little Grace here is an aristocrat of loose morals.”
“So much for a pretense of civility,” Mr. Baltingham muttered.