“And you—”
“I do not use my pull lightly or frequently. But those ruffians have crossed a line this time. This has not been their usual pattern, I have to say. Normally, if they see no way to success, they . . .” Dorothea hesitated. “I’m sorry, Constance. I’m so sorry . . . They find a way to finalize the problem. And that is the end of it. They move on to the next poor dupe.”
The jolt of the train, the other gambler darting past flashed across Constance’s mind. She raised her hand and rubbed at her forehead.
“I truly am sorry, Constance. I simply have no other way of telling you all this. I do not mean to distress you. What I have to tell you is to reassure you of your safety.”
She mistakes me as grieving, Constance thought. She brushed back the hair her hand had inadvertently loosened and raised her head, took a deep breath, and nodded to her guest. “Why has our situation, my situation, been different? Do you know?”
“We can’t be certain, of course. But likely that man with the sinister mustache is a bit of a rogue. Which will most certainly be his ruination. The Black Hand is not known to tolerate disloyalty, especially involving money. Either he will be found dead quite soon or he will be set up to fall into the hands of the authorities for a major offense, murder, likely. But he will not come near you or your children again. Of that, I can assure you, Constance. Word has gone out, and the reins are pulled in. This ordeal is over now.”
Both women rose, and Analee with them. As she allowed herself to fall into Dorothea’s surprisingly strong embrace, Constance noticed in her peripheral vision the tears on Analee’s cheeks. She held out her hand to Analee’s strong grasp.
“Now, where are those girls?” Dorothea said, stepping back. “They were supposed to come show me their dressed-up dolls.”
“They have probably changed those dolls three times by now,” Analee said. “They get to changing those clothes, and they can’t quit coming up with another idea. Fore you know it, they changing each other. I’m going to fetch them for you right now.”
*
Upon returning home, Alice was surprised to see Dorothea Richard’s motorcar pull away. She was out of breath when she stepped into the house, simultaneously overcome with her own experience and curious to know the reason for Dorothea’s visit. Had she been there to examine the progress on the gown? What if she had disapproved of something?
As she entered the house, Alice was immediately startled. Constance had her by the shoulders, laughing and crying at once. Curiosity conquered Alice’s fatigue and anxiety.
“It’s over, Alice.” Constance’s voice was dense, and the assuredness of it penetrated Alice’s agitated spirit.
“What’s over?”
“The Black Hand threat. Dorothea has pulled some strings, and it’s over.”
“How can she do that? A woman with—”
“With the right connections to powerful men. I vow I believe she is using some sort of blackmail.”
“Blackmail!”
“Well, not really, but she seems to know some scuttlebutt on some of our city politicians who are connected to the legal status of Storyville. And to be using it on our behalf. It’s too complicated to explain quickly. Perhaps over dinner.” Constance grabbed for her hand and pulled Alice into the drawing room. “Now, what did you find? You look so pale. Did you find him?”
Did I find him? Alice thought. No. She shook her head.
“No. Did you find anything? A clue? Someone who knew him?”
Again, Alice shook her head. How to tell all this?
“Then what?”
“The place was a madhouse. So many people. So many men. And loud.” Alice stepped to the window and glanced out, almost a habit now since the threats and with the detective on guard.
“Come now. Sit. Let yourself calm down. You’re home now.”
Home? Was that what she had heard? It was only a figure of speech, but it penetrated Alice’s awareness. She would never be home. That she could foresee. She lowered herself into a chair.
“Now, that’s better. Would you like the footstool?”
Constance bent to move it, but Alice shook her head. She was glad of Constance’s silence while she collected herself. Under her fingers she was aware of the layers of the cut velvet upholstery—the fingers that had held that photo. Her last proof of her marriage, should she need it in a divorce. Alice raised her eyes to Constance’s face.
“A woman at the information desk thought she recognized him.”
“Recognized him? From your photo? Was his name in the directory?”
“No. Not his name.”
“But she knew him?”
“No, she only thought he might have looked familiar. From some other place. She sometimes carries documents to the wharves. It might have been there, she thought. But she wasn’t even sure. The photo was blurred. And Howard is not a distinctive-looking man—handsome, yes, but nothing unusual about him, so . . .”
“The wharves? I’ve been there a few times with Benton. Let me see the photo. Perhaps I might know him.”
“I don’t have it.” Alice stared out the window. “I panicked in that place. I had to get out. So crowded.” She absentmindedly pulled at the seams of her skirt. “It tore.”
“Tore? Do you have the pieces?”
Alice wondered if she would ever have anything other than pieces. Pieces of fabric she could rearrange into something of use and beauty. But pieces of life? Would they ever become a whole?
“There was only a small corner left in my fingers. The rest was gone. So, I let it go.”
An effervescent trilling pulled her gaze to the window again. A wren flew from one of the bare lower tree branches. Alice found herself envying its freedom.
“We must make an outing to the wharves,” Constance said.
Alice took in the we. For a second time, she absorbed the unfamiliar, assuring sense of friendship. Again, she suffered a momentary sense of loss at what she had never had, had never even known she was missing. The realization transported her to her mother, the mother who had been her friend, who had sent her away to what she envisioned as a more promising life. Alice was glad her mother would never know.
“Yes, we must do that tomorrow.” Constance’s voice broke into Alice’s reverie. “I can leave Analee and the children now without fear of the Black Hand. We are so near. We have only to stroll down there after breakfast.”
Alice nodded, but she found herself stopped short at the idea of a stroll. This search for the man who had deserted her was no stroll. She was not on some pleasure walk. Dared she speak to her employer about her feelings? Her benefactor? What was this woman to her? A friend? Alice had no pattern within her for friendship. But then, she had no pattern for that gown that now hung upstairs, with only stitches remaining to completion.
“This is hardly a stroll for me, Constance.”
“No. This is no stroll. Forgive me, Alice. That was unthoughtful of me.”
Alice felt as much as saw Constance’s outstretched hand. She took it.
“I’m so relieved, elated really, at Dorothea’s news that—I’m sorry—I am not fully present yet. I’m afraid I’m distracted from your news by my relief for my girls.”
“As is natural, Constance. Of course.” Alice stood and brushed at her skirt. “We must have this gown finished before we distract ourselves further,” she said. “We will go when it is done. There is nothing more in that woman’s response than I knew before. Anyone could seem vaguely familiar to anyone in a poor-quality photo. But you will be wearing that gown the day after tomorrow. We have the headpiece and veil to finish before then.”
“You are gracious, Alice. And kind. Thank you. Luckily, it is warm this year, and I will need only my cape for a wrap. Imagine if this were last year. It was near to freezing!”
“Was it?” Alice felt again the bitter cold of Chicago, the unexpected terror of her boots out of control on the ice, the pain of her fall—all that had led her to this place and this moment. She excused herself and left the drawing room, turned to the stairway and the work remaining.