A Beautiful Poison
Lydia Kang
Show me the two so closely bound
As we, by the wet bond of blood,
By friendship, blossoming from mud,
By Death: we faced him, and we found
Beauty in Death,
In dead men breath.
—“Two Fusiliers,” 1918, Robert Graves
CHAPTER 1
August 17, 1918
At the bottom of the oak staircase at the stately Cutter house on Fifth Avenue, Florence Waxworth—tedious busybody and recent debutante—lay askew, shapely legs draped over the last step. One silk slipper perched on the top landing, where it had been violently kicked off at the start of her fall. The other was still buckled chastely onto her left foot.
The skirt of her gilt dress had ridden up, revealing satin garters above her knees. Her face was turned to the wall as if Florence herself couldn’t bear such an embarrassing predicament. Her hair was a tumbled mess, and a smear of blood marked where her cheekbone had collided with a stair edge during the descent. An odd darkness mottled her skin. The broken remnants of a Baccarat wineglass reflected light—an earthbound chandelier scattered on the floor.
All the while, the fiancée of the hour, Allene Cutter, simply stared. Electric happiness mixed in with the horrific, like when you saw a broken robin’s egg on the ground in spring, full of smashed baby bird, and still thought—what a splendid blue color of eggshell.
She had dreaded this party. Dreaded being engaged to Andrew. And yet she wanted both with an equal, opposite volume of craving. Such a match ought to be nothing but wonderful. Shouldn’t it be grand to be Mrs. Andrew Smythe Biddle III? And at the enviable age of eighteen? But Florence’s death brought splendor to Allene’s cheeks not because of the snuffing out of a certain needle-nosed, irritating socialite, but because of whom it drew to her side.
Jasper Jones and Birdie Dreyer.
“Turn her over—gently!” Jasper cautioned. He was the closest thing to a doctor at the party, though he worked at Bellevue Hospital, and his official métier was janitor and he had yet to begin his medical studies. Father had been awfully foul when he discovered that Allene had invited him. But at least someone was doing something, and it wasn’t one of his prized guests. “Bring some smelling salts. Quickly!” Jasper ordered. He was damned handsome when he yelled like that.
Servants crowded Florence’s body, uncorking bottles of ammonium salts. A slim hand slipped into Allene’s and squeezed gently. Forgivingly.
Birdie.
She was Allene’s height but lacked her breadth. She was, as always, like her name—something you desperately wanted to keep caged for the sheer greed of possessing it. After being absent from the Cutter house for four long years, Birdie was still slender and fragile, as if snipped off a piece of cloud. Her golden hair was loosely knotted above the nape of her neck. Her skin had that translucent quality of milk glass and moonstones.
Next to Birdie, Allene felt gaudy and overdrawn, even though Birdie wore the borrowed feathers of an ill-fitting peach silk dress from Allene’s own armoire. Allene wished she hadn’t painted so much lipstick and rouge on herself.
But something had changed about Birdie during her absence from the Cutter house. She’d always been this fairy girl, but now she had a bosom and hips and—oh! That face! She had the sort of beauty that left you bleeding internally after gazing for too long. Throughout the party, Andrew had barely been able to stop staring.
“The smelling salts aren’t working,” Jasper said. He withdrew his fingers from Florence’s neck, which was now swollen and purpling under the warm electric lights. “By God, Allene. Florence is most certainly dead.”
Of course she is, Allene nearly said, before biting her tongue.
“Oh my gosh!” Ernie added uselessly.
Ernest Fielding was all chubby face and blond hair and too much awkward elbow. He was the one who was invited to all the parties but to whom no one wished to speak. In the last hour, he’d already retold the same joke, laughed the same laugh, and discussed the price of gold bullion twice, as if anyone truly cared. His father was a banker and a bore, and Ernie was dutifully following in his footsteps. As usual, everyone ignored his exclamation, which came approximately ten minutes too late.
Birdie caught the almost-mischievous look in Allene’s eyes, and she surreptitiously leaned in, as if keenly remarking, I know what you are. You and your schemes, always trying to knit us together, always leaving poor Ernie behind and laughing about it, always playing people like they were chess pieces underfoot. Don’t think I forgot. It’s only been four years.
Meanwhile, Jasper went to speak with Andrew by the enormous fireplace with its white marble mantel, burdened with a cloche-covered clock and crystal vases stuffed to choking with roses. Dark hair fell roguishly into Jasper’s hazel eyes. He wore a proper sack suit in nut brown, but it looked wrinkled next to Andrew’s impeccable silk tuxedo. Allene could see the fraying of the trouser cuffs, but Jasper sported a straightness to his spine. Even in the midst of the tragedy, he caught her glance and winked at her in a challenge. Tell me I’m wrinkled, and I’ll wrestle you in the mud. Just try me.
My, but he’d grown. His shoulders were wider, and he was far taller than before—almost a head taller. Thank goodness he was too young for the draft. Oh, that war. That terrible, bloody war. And yet Jasper had gone through something himself these last four years. Hard labor and time away from the Upper East Side had stolen the boyish roundness of his cheeks, replacing them with angles that simply hadn’t been there before. Here he was—a man. He’d grown without Allene’s permission. She wanted to stamp the floor with her Louis heels.
Andrew came to her side. Together, the Almost Mr. and Mrs. Biddle. Wonderful.
“Darling. You must be so upset,” he murmured. “Do you need to retire upstairs? I can explain your absence. It would be most understandable.”
By all accounts, Andrew was handsome, with that perfectly trimmed chestnut hair slicked with pomade and his waistcoat shining with a gold fob. And like any gentleman of breeding, he kept his emotions well concealed. He wasn’t like Birdie, whose emotions swirled like oil on water in her eyes, or Jasper, who blurted out his feelings with a quick smirk or frown, unable to hide anything. But did Andrew not care that their party was ruined? Or was he thrilled? Perhaps he was waiting for another opportunity for a surreptitious glance at Birdie’s breasts. Allene had an unnatural urge to prick him with a brooch pin, just to see if he actually bled. But the Biddles didn’t bleed. Like the Fieldings, they were bankers; they bled other people.