morning. And yet she stopped her motion of busy arms and hands to draw out the quiet girl, seated before a full plate of biscuits and gravy.
“What that painter man put on you?”
“Miss Lily?”
“That’s some good gravy gone to harden like my heart.”
“Said what, Miss Lily?”
Lily did something in the cookhouse she had no time for. She pulled a stool from under the table and sat down beside Thisbe. “Yo’ mistress be turning any minute. Y’aint got time for staring at the moon.”
There was something sobering about taking Madame Sylvie into account that got Thisbe to sopping her biscuit in the gravy and chewing.
Lily said in the same way she said everything, “If a child’s coming, let him come.”
Thisbe’s mouth was full, but she dropped her biscuit, chewed fast, and raised and waved her hands to protest.
Lily wouldn’t hear it and talked over Thisbe’s gestures and feeble squawking. “I had a child. He dead now. Ten years gone.”
Lily never spoke about her dead child. She chopped hard. Yanked husks unmercifully. Cracked bones with bare hands. Pounded knuckles into tough meat. But she never spoke about her child.
Thisbe had pity and answered her. “I’m not big, Miss Lily. That ain’t my trouble.”
Lily said, “Best eat, Dis Be. You don’t need to know trouble, but I ’speck you know trouble. I ’speck you do.”
VII
MADAME LOOKED UP FROM HER SOLITAIRE TO FIND Marie and Louise standing before her. There was no need for their presence. She hadn’t called for them. “Well?” she asked.
“Please, Madanm Sylvie,” Marie said. “We need more hands to manage the party.”
“Please, Madanm Sylvie,” Louise said. “Let Cook help us serve.”
Madame’s face tensed. “Certainly not! Cook stays in the cookhouse.” The request seemed too much for Madame, and Thisbe waved the fan over her until Madame fussed at her to stop. “No. No. Certainly not. Cook has no proper serving dress. No! She will ruin my party.”
This meant defeat to Marie and Louise. They knew Cook had the stamina to butcher, chop, fry, and bake in the cookhouse. She could stand on her feet and sweat and had never been sick a day and had no children and no man to care for. (She had once been given a helper, who fainted several times from being enclosed in the hot brick room. The helper was sent back to the cane field.)
Cook didn’t have what Marie or Louise had. Or Thisbe, for that matter. She didn’t have the proper respect for class. Gentility. She couldn’t be made to serve quietly, pleasantly, and most important, invisibly. The thought of the large woman serving the matrons of Madame’s society, and saying, “Heah, mah damn,” made Madame shudder. No amount of beating or coaching could change Cook’s demeanor. Better to keep Cook in the cookhouse where she sweat over the food.
“Certainly not.”
“Please, Madanm Sylvie. Let Thisbe help,” Marie said. “She does nothing all day.”
Thisbe made no expression. For this, among other things, Marie and Louise despised Thisbe. The sisters passed eyes to Thisbe. At least swat when the horsefly buzzes your ear.
Thisbe read them well and answered silently, with the slightest spread of her lips: Better the horsefly than a hornet.
“Certainly not!” Madame said, oblivious to their silent exchange. “You waste my time and yours. Think of all you could have done in the time you spent complaining.”
“Yes, Madanm Sylvie,” they both said. Marie turned to go, but Louise eyed Thisbe with her utmost scorn. Thisbe smiled.
When they left, Madame scolded. “You see what happens because of the painter? They see you cleaning his things, carrying his water, and they forget you are my servant.”
“Please pardon, Madame Sylvie,” Thisbe said.
“I told Le Brun to use your hands and legs to assist him in the work for my portrait. I told Le Brun to not put ideas in your mind, and he has you looking at me. Then looking at my portrait. You see this, my assistant? You see that?” she said, mimicking him. “And you! You dare to show your teeth and laugh in public. No, Thisbe. This is not good. Even my house servants forget themselves to tell me what I should do, because they see you.”
“Pardon, Madame. Have pity.”
Madame’s face was stone. “Fetch me the brush.”
“Yes, Madame Sylvie.” Thisbe hurried to the vanity and retrieved the sterling silver brush, knowing its intended use.
“The brush, Madame Sylvie.”
Madame took the brush. “You are a body,” Madame said. “Not a whole person, so I must punish your body with what strength I have. Now, hold