The Many Reflections of Miss Jane Deming by J. Anderson Coats

Author:J. Anderson Coats
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers

14

WE’RE HEADING INTO THE DINING room for breakfast when Mr. Condon calls Mrs. D over to the registry desk and asks if she plans to stay another week.

“Yes, I think we will,” Mrs. D replies with her coy smile. Mr. Condon isn’t a banker, but he doesn’t have a wife, and I suspect Mrs. D might be changing her mind about how vulgar it would be to be married to an innkeeper.

“Very good,” Mr. Condon says, like he doesn’t notice her trailing curls and bitten-red lips. “If you’d kindly pay the boarding bill for last week, then.”

“Th-that’s not how it’s done in New York!” Mrs. D forgets to be flirty. She sounds scared instead. “I’m just a helpless widow. All alone in the world and far from friends and kin.”

I muffle a snort into Jer’s hair. Mrs. D is a lot of things, but she’s not helpless.

“Ma’am, this isn’t New York.” Mr. Condon smiles like he’s heard it all before. “A week’s worth of credit is the best I can do.”

“Even for one of the Mercer Girls?”

Mr. Condon doesn’t reply, and Mrs. D’s whole face goes dark, because she’s not one of the Mercer Girls and they both know it. She might have come on the same expedition and shared a ship with them, but that’s where it ends. A widow can’t be a girl, even when in a way she is, and definitely not when she’s got me and Jer behind her.

“Fine.” Mrs. D storms toward the stairs. “I’ll be back directly.”

While we wait, Jer gallops Hoss around the room and I peek into the parlor. There are no bachelors. Not a one. Not even Mr. W.

I shouldn’t care, but I do. Mr. W was going to finish telling me how he found gold the first time, how he was sure it couldn’t be real. Sometimes I forget he’s a grown-up, since he talks to me friendly and companionable. Like Nell does, and Flora used to.

Mrs. D bustles up to the registry desk. She carefully lays out three of the two-dollar bills, counting under her breath one-two, three-four, five-six like she practiced it all the way down.

Then she beams proudly, and considering how rarely she smiles that big—and that genuine—I smile too. It must be hard when you can’t cipher properly. You have to trust that people aren’t cheating you. It’s not like you can catch them in the act.

Longhand division is worth something after all.

Mr. Condon picks up the bills. “Ma’am . . . this is only three dollars’ worth of currency.”

“No. I—I did it right.” Mrs. D blinks rapidly as her cheeks go shiny pink. “I counted six.”

“Those are two-dollar bills,” I say to Mr. Condon. “She did count it right. It’s six dollars.”

Mrs. D straightens and lifts her chin, just like I did when Miss Gower asked what I thought of something.

“Yes,” Mr. Condon replies patiently, “that’s what it says on the money, but the war depreciated all these greenbacks till they’re barely worth the paper they’re printed on.

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