A House of Tailors Read Online Free Page B

in America!

six
    At last it was my turn to go down the gangplank. I tried to remember what Mama had told me about being a lady, about being correct. But I ran the last few steps, my hat skimming off my head and sailing down on my back, held only by the woolen ties against my neck.
    I ran straight into the Uncle’s arms.
    He was surprised—no, more than surprised. He was shocked.
    I stepped back. “I’m here,” I said a little uncertainly. I raised one shoulder in a half shrug. “Me instead of Katharina.”
    â€œI see that.” He didn’t smile. “Wait until I bring your trunk.”
    I stood there, waiting forever, it seemed, watching the sea of people around me and the foaming wake as the ferry began its trip back to Castle Garden, until he returned carrying my trunk on his shoulder. We began the walk to my new home.
    I remembered the last time the Uncle had come to Breisach. I couldn’t have been more than five, sewing a bit of lace on my doll Gretchen’s coat.
    â€œYou will be a good tailor like Uncle Lucas,” Mama had said.
    â€œWait.” He had picked up the tiny coat. “You do it like this, the lace underneath so the stitches don’t show.”
    I had pulled it back. “No, like this. It’s my doll, my doll’s coat, my lace.”
    I wondered if he was remembering the same thing. How could I have forgotten that even then we rubbed each other like emery? Was he disappointed not to have Katharina there? Katharina, who was quiet and soothing, and never in trouble.
    I swallowed. The Uncle had been right about the lace, of course. But what was I thinking of? Sewing had no place in my life from this moment on.
    I chattered to him all the way, ignoring the cold gray day. “Katharina sent soft cloth for the baby, Maria,” I said. “Barbara can run up nightgowns and shirts. And there’s pink flannel, the softest pink for a blanket, and rolls of ribbons, rose and green. I will embroider roses and leaves on the binding for her myself.”
    I stopped. Had I said that? But what was a little embroidery for a baby? I couldn’t count that as sewing, not at all.
    It was a long walk through the streets, and several times the Uncle stopped to shift my trunk from one shoulder to another. But I didn’t mind the distance at all. I stared at the stone houses, one attached to the next, like the ones in my own city.
    There was a difference, though: the streets were filthy. Every time we turned a corner, I expected to see the houses become grander, the streets cleaner. But when we finally reached the last corner and the Uncle put down the trunk once more, and pointed, I saw our house.
    I drew in my breath. Such a tall house. True, there were droppings from the horses in the streets, and bits of coal and sawdust that rose up in eddies and settled again as a rogue wind turned them from one direction to another. But the size of this house!
    Would I have one floor all to myself?
    By the time we entered the vestibule I knew I was mistaken. “The top floor is ours,” the Uncle said.
    Only the top?
    My heart fell, but I told myself it was all right. I didn’t need a whole floor; all I needed was a bedroom of my own.
    We began the climb. I followed the Uncle up the stairs, holding on to the broad wooden railing, breathless as we navigated the steps and the stairwells.
    One woman peeked out of a doorway and nodded at us, her head covered with a kerchief, a broom in her hand. And on the next floor was a girl who looked almost like Katharina. She smiled at me shyly before she closed the door again.
    On the top floor, the door was open, and Barbara stood there, beautiful and slim, just as I had pictured her, and so tiny she didn’t quite reach the top of my head. She waited for us, arms out.
    I flew into those arms, hugging her, and was surprised to notice the lovely smell of cinnamon. In back of her was Aunt Ida, Mama’s older sister,