As quickly as one thought followed another, Alice felt the coming void of the end of this project. For now, this gown was her shelter, her food, her safety. Once it was done, her time here was done.
The days of nausea had long ceased. Mostly, she was aware of being constantly hungry, but fortunately, Analee was almost always cooking away at the stove and eager for someone to taste and give approval. She had loosened the seams of her two dresses enough to hide the expansion of her middle, and it could perhaps go unnoticed until the gown was done and she was gone. But gone where? She had allowed herself to be absorbed so fully into this household that she had failed in her awareness of how short term her time here was. As she leaned over the basket, filled now with the dull ache of her dread, she felt a small flutter in her belly. Then another. She gasped and rubbed her hand on the right side, below her waist. Her baby. Her baby was alive and moving.
“Are you all right?” Constance asked.
Alice heard the concern and turned her face directly to Constance.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am fine. I am truly fine. I am with child.”
She saw the incredulity on Constance’s face.
“With child?”
“Yes. I have known it since soon after . . . since after I lost my husband, but I dared not dwell on it.” She dared not continue, dared not speak too much of loss to Constance, whose loss was equal, if not greater. The death of her husband at least was confirmed. Alice was left in limbo; perhaps she might never know where Howard, whoever Howard was, had disappeared to. Or she might as easily bump into him on the street one day, some other woman on his arm and a look of assured astonishment on his face. Yet Constance had these girls. She had a home. She had an income, if not a great one. Alice had nothing to lend her security. She had nothing at all except her skill. But now she would have this child. Her child, who was alive in her body.
“The baby is kicking. Right here.” She touched the spot again in wonder and smiled at her companions.
CHAPTER 31
Dorothea Richard arrived punctually at two, presenting her card to Analee.
“Good afternoon, Analee. Are you well?” She drew the gloves from her hands finger by finger and dropped them into her bag, needlepointed with extravagant scrollwork. “The weather is favoring us, don’t you think?”
Constance was already down the last step and rushing a bit toward her guest. The turmoil in her head had moved to her abdomen. Her mind had numbed itself, and she hoped that lifelong habit would serve her now for appropriate manners. It was as if a heavy stone had been laid on her chest and she had to hold it there with her breath, her posture, with words that did not simply spill from her mouth unchecked. For a fleeting second, she pictured the embroidered, beaded dove there at the center of her chest, holding up the cables of the Brooklyn Bridge. I am strong enough, she thought and held out her hand to Dorothea.
“Please come in, Mrs. Ri—” She stopped herself. “Dorothea.”
As Constance chatted for a moment observing the formalities of good manners, she noted the clear disinterest on the face of her guest.
“We are not here to practice good manners, my dear. Shall we have a look at the design for your gown?” Dorothea walked toward the stairs.
Constance raised her head. The weight in her breast had evaporated. She took the lead and ushered her guest to the sewing room, where Alice waited. Constance’s attention whipped instantly to the preceding moments, to news of the coming baby, to the safety of her girls, to . . . to . . . She stopped herself and turned to observe Dorothea’s reactions.
Her imperious guest stood at the door, surveying the room. When she nodded, Constance took another step forward and opened her mouth to speak. Dorothea held up a hand, and Constance stood silent, watching, holding herself still despite an overload of emotion.
“How lovely.” Dorothea stepped into the room. She walked along the tables, as Constance had earlier, touching the fabrics here and there. “I can see the full layout, the gown itself.” Beside the sewing machine, she smiled as she traced her fingers over the red and gold ornamentation. She looked up at Alice. “You have done an admirable job here, Alice. I am entirely familiar with your raw materials.” Dorothea laughed. “This is an impressive transformation.”
Constance realized how from the laid-out pieces of fabric, Dorothea could envision the whole. She was impressed and suddenly aware of how many gowns and costumes this woman had overseen through the years.
“Actually, the design is a collaboration between us,” Alice said. She directed Dorothea’s gaze back to Constance. “It is Constance who had the vision. I am lucky to have the experience to translate her vision. There is a great deal yet to do, of course.”
How generous she is, thought Constance. She felt a mixture of sadness and gratitude for this young stranger who had entered her life.
“Yes, I believe I told you from the beginning I perceived that you two would be a fine match for each other’s immediate needs.”
Constance was struck with the awareness now that Alice’s needs extended far beyond the immediate. As did her own if the Black Hand at her fence could not be apprehended.
Dorothea examined the bowls of separated pearls, beads, rhinestones, and crystals. She lifted various scraps from the basket. Constance watched as Alice described the plan for ornamentation, Dorothea nodding in agreement.
“Ingenious,” she proclaimed. “And not overdone. That is of extreme importance.”
Constance met Dorothea’s gaze.
“You must be as lovely as you are without being recognized or standing out above the four queens. Oh, I know we are working for equality, but there is still a certain amount of decorum and Mardi Gras tradition to be observed. We are breaking so many rules already. We can only go so far at a time without resistance and chaos. You two have devised an understated symbolism, clear to yourselves—which is all that truly matters. You must be certain now that your veil obscures recognition.”
“Yes, we have a plan for that. I cannot afford to be recognized. As a recent widow, I truly do not belong at this ball.”
“You are a recent widow, and you are a woman. Those are the very reasons you do belong at this ball.”
Constance backed away to let Dorothea exit and followed her down the stairs. Alice came last and closed the door. As they entered the drawing room, Dorothea turned to Constance.
“I believe there was some difficulty with the Black Hand and your husband’s debts. Have they left you alone?”
Stunned, Constance gripped the arm of a chair. From the corner of her eye, she could see Analee rushing toward her from the kitchen and turned to raise a hand to stop her. She might sit, but she would not faint. She knew that both Dorothea and Alice were watching.
“Please sit.” Constance waved her hand in a semicircle that included Alice and Dorothea. She turned her head. “You, too, Analee. We are all in this together.”
The women waited as Constance collected herself. Once she began to speak, she did not stop. She found herself as forthright as Dorothea. No detail of what she knew of the Black Hand remained untold: Benton’s gambling debts, the ruined papers on his body, the connections Pulgrum had made, the sinister man with the bizarre A La Souvarov mustache, the sinister note, Pulgrum’s plea not to pay the extortion money, his plan gone so horribly awry, the terrifying threat to her children only hours ago.
Silence enveloped the room when Constance ceased speaking. Her eyes never left Dorothea. Constance awaited Dorothea’s reaction. Only Dorothea’s. The others had lived this alongside her.
Finally, Dorothea stirred, stood, and said, “I will handle this. I wish you had come to me sooner. I told you early on that you must let me know if they continue to threaten or hound you. I will take care of this now.”