“What’s that?” asked Briar nervously.
“Settle down, it’s only rouge.”
“I don’t need any cheek color.”
“Will you trust me?” Mim stepped back. “Look at me, and tell me what cosmetics I have used on myself today.”
“I don’t know,” Briar said. “You look like you always do during the day.”
“Exactly. I look natural, but I’m wearing everything I’m going to put on you.”
“I don’t know why you wear cosmetics to the mill,” Briar said. It seemed a waste. The only single male-folk on the spinning floor were the doffers, and they were all young-uns except for Henry.
“You never know who you’ll meet on the street coming home for dinner, now do you? A girl has to be prepared.”
Briar nodded. Since she agreed to let Mim help, there was no point in complaining at every turn.
As Mim applied ointment and more powder, she began to hum, clearly enjoying making Briar up. But when Mim lit a candle and stuck a hairpin in the flame, Briar couldn’t remain silent. She jumped out of her chair. “I don’t want you burning my hair.” She grabbed at her locks to protect them.
Mim laughed. “This here pin is not for your hair. ’Tis for your lashes, to make them darker.”
“No! You’re not coming at my eyes with that hot poker.”
Mim calmly held the pin in the flame. “It won’t be hot when I ‘come at you,’” she said. “I only want the soot. Try not to rub your eyes or you’ll look a mess. And no crying.”
“Why would I cry?”
“Girls just do sometimes,” said Mim. “Now hold still.”
Briar stared at the spot where the wall met the ceiling, resisting the urge to blink while Mim attempted to bring out her eyes. She was surprised at the lengths she was willing to go to test Wheeler. Would she know at the end of the night what to do? Could it be that easy?
Chapter Thirty
Feeling self-conscious, Briar slipped downstairs and into the parlor. She’d not put on Mim’s fancy dress, thinking that was overdone. Instead, she wore her best dress, which only meant the one she didn’t wear to the mill. The cosmetics made her feel out of place, as if she were wearing a fur coat in summer.
When she stepped into the room, the girls sitting around glanced up to see who was new, then went back to the games or activities they were working on. Briar was glad she’d not worn Mim’s dress. The parlor was busy tonight and she didn’t need to give anyone more fodder for gossip.
Nell was on the piano. Mary and Lizbeth were deep in conversation, and the others were around the coffee table, playing Tiddledy Winks already. The two chairs set off by themselves, most often used for courting couples, were empty, and Briar sat in one. These were the seats she and Wheeler used to occupy all last winter.
“I hear a doctor over in Rutland is calling it an epidemic. He’s got more than fifty patients, and several have died already. Some only a few days after getting sick.”
Briar leaned in to the conversation. An epidemic meant it wasn’t the spindle. Some of the pressure weighing her down eased. She was already responsible for her siblings; she didn’t want to be responsible for a whole floor of operatives.
At the first knock on the door, Briar shot up to answer it, but was beaten there by another eager girl. Everyone was ready for the fun to start.
They began where they ended the previous night, with the Crossed and Uncrossed scissors game. Wheeler came in late, but the circle opened up to allow him in. He smiled and waved as he moved in his chair across from Briar, and they started passing the scissors around.
Twenty minutes later when the boys still weren’t figuring out the trick, the girls began exaggerating their motions to give hints. Finally, Nell crossed her legs and said “crossed” then uncrossed her legs and said “uncrossed.” And if that wasn’t enough, the next girl crossed her ankles, saying “crossed” then uncrossed her ankles and said “uncrossed.”
George smacked his forehead. “It’s the legs, not how you pass the scissors.”
The laughter from George’s comments set the tone for the rest of the night. Briar let go and allowed herself to be just a girl instead of a caretaker of her siblings, an operative at the mill, or the guardian of a dangerous spindle.
At the end of the night she walked Wheeler to the door, like she used to do.
“I had a good evening,” Wheeler said.
“Me, too.”
“It was like old times.”
“Mm-hmm,” she agreed, and yet it was and it wasn’t like old times. She’d had fun, but so much had changed since they were together. Briar felt like she had grown, gained some perspective. Had he?