The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [51]
“Yes, but her columns say Ida B. Wells. They wouldn’t say that, would they, if she didn’t approve? She’s the owner, after all, she and her husband.” Mrs. Fradin’s free hand played with her earring. “I wonder what he thinks about this business with her name?”
“When I sent her my invitation,” Mrs. DuPree said, “I addressed her as Mrs. Barnett. She’s a married woman and that’s her name.”
Rebecca Hall said, “I do believe that she prefers Mrs. Wells-Barnett. With a hyphen.” She leaned back in the black love seat. “Wells-Barnett is so modern. Don’t you agree, Mother?”
Eve Hall raised her eyebrows. “I most certainly do not. I’m proud to be Mrs. Wilbur Hall, and someday, young lady, you’ll be proud to take your husband’s name.”
I saw Mrs. DuPree frowning at me. I went back into the kitchen. Seemed to me that being modern didn’t have a thing to do with it. Ida B. Wells-Barnett had to keep her maiden name when she got married three years ago. If she had changed it, folks would feel like they didn’t know her. They’d worry that she wouldn’t speak her mind anymore. They’d say that marriage and motherhood had turned her soft.
A little past three she arrived, and then I was tearing around the kitchen pouring coffee into the polished silver urn and arranging tea sandwiches on Mrs. DuPree’s white scallop-edged platter. Rose Douglas hurried into the kitchen and hurried back out with the coffee urn. A minute later she was back for the tea sandwiches.
“Mrs. Douglas, let me carry that for you,” I said. “You’re wearing yourself out.”
Sweat beaded Rose Douglas’s forehead, dampening a row of pressed curls. I gave her a handkerchief; she dabbed at her neck and face.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Elizabeth said you weren’t to—”
But I was already past Rose Douglas, the platter held high. I didn’t care if Mrs. DuPree fired me. I was not going to miss the chance to see the world-famous Ida B. Wells-Barnett.
I put the platter on the dining-room table. The ladies were talking, but I couldn’t make out any words, my ears were ringing so loud. I took a deep breath and went into the parlor. The ladies were a blur of hats and white blouses.
I swallowed. Then I saw her.
Mrs. Wells-Barnett was plainer than the Circle of Eight ladies. Her navy skirt wasn’t as full as the other ladies’. Her cream blouse was simple, with few lacy frills, and she didn’t wear a brooch. Her brimless hat had only one feather. She was round, and her skin was as black as mine.
My heart pounding, I looked right at Mrs. Wells-Barnett and curtsied. “Refreshments are served,” I said in my best voice.
From the corner of my eye I saw Mrs. DuPree. She was reared back in her chair, glaring and warning me off with several quick shakes of her head. I ignored her.
“Why, honey, thank you,” Mrs. Wells-Barnett said to me. She talked Southern, like my parents. “That is so good of you. And here we are, enjoying ourselves while you,” she turned toward Trudy, “while you both are working so hard.”
I curtsied again, and Trudy bobbed, her fan dipping with her.
“No need to curtsy me,” Mrs. Wells-Barnett said. “I’m not royalty—wouldn’t want to be.” She held up her teacup. “There’s more African blood than white in my veins.” She paused. “Obviously.”
I drew in my breath. Somebody made a sharp, gasping sound. Mrs. Wells-Barnett’s eyes smiled at me as she drank some tea. I raised my chin, a chill running along my spine. For the first time I was proud of my black skin.
“Rachel,” Mrs. DuPree said, her voice hard. I flinched and then hurried back into the kitchen, the door closing behind me. There, I did a little two-step dance. Nothing Mrs. DuPree said or did was going to ruin what had just happened. Ida B. Wells-Barnett had looked me right in the eye and thanked me like I was somebody important.
I heard what Mrs. Wells-Barnett really said behind her words: I know what it’s like to be a maid. That’s what she meant when she told me not to curtsy. I know how it feels when other people think you don’t count for much. Put your chin up, Rachel Reeves. Change their minds. Show them what