Esther, the cook, came in through the back kitchen door carrying a basket full of yellow wax beans. Her son had disembarked in Brest just a few months earlier, and she’d asked permission to plant a victory garden in the Cutters’ back plot of land. Allene was sick to death of wax beans but propriety told her to say nothing—at least to Esther’s face.
The scent of juicy chicken and tarragon roasting in the oven wafted throughout the kitchen. Allene eyed a cream sauce simmering on the stove. A rumbling stomach reminded her that she’d missed breakfast. A few servants were cleaning the large numbers of dirty glasses and dishes from the evening before.
They welcomed her with curtsies and bows before returning to their work. None seemed surprised at her being there. She had a funny habit of reading labels on all sorts of things that came through the house. She was an odd girl, always had been, and the staff knew it. Once or twice, she’d overheard Lucy schooling a new maid on humoring Miss Allene and her peculiar ways.
Even though her mother hadn’t set foot in the house for years, Dorothy Cutter’s signature was everywhere. The perfect marble inlay on the hallway tables matched the damask drapery; the silverware was polished weekly, no matter what. The servants snapped to attention whenever Allene or her father entered the room, though neither enforced such behavior. Mother’s ghost (if a living person could have a ghost) watched everything.
And yet she was also numbingly far away. The last words Allene had exchanged with her in person had been to beg her mother to let Birdie return. She had been only thirteen then—nearly fourteen. Fourteen and so, so naive.
“But Birdie isn’t sick! Surely she doesn’t have consumption. She won’t make me ill, Mother. I promise.”
“Absolutely not. It’s for your own good. And consider it a blessing not to have such a beautiful girl in your sphere. It’s a dreadful vexation to be a shadow when you’re supposed to be the sun.”
Allene had said nothing more.
She’d received letters every other week the first year Mother had left to regain her health. The year after, they came every other month. As Mother’s correspondence faded, so did the memories of her familiar clicking heels on the marble floors, the cadence of pearls at her throat when she fingered them, and that perfectly powdered aquiline nose. Andrew’s marriage proposal was approved of and blessed by post. Of course, Mother never would have sanctioned Allene’s renewed interest in Jasper and Birdie. Her ghost might whisper her disapproval, but she had become too quiet—not from declining health, but from neglect and declining consequence in her daughter’s life.
Allene stooped down before a cabinet in the kitchen, ignoring the curious glances from the servants. She opened one cupboard, then another. Not every product displayed a list of chemicals. Companies could be secretive about their proprietary products. She was rummaging through the shelves when one of the chambermaids, Josephine, curtsied neatly. She was short, with bell-shaped hips that swung almost merrily when she walked. Her hands were large and capable; Allene could have worn them as gloves. At the thought of slipping on the warm, bloodied, and flayed skin of another person, she shivered. Why did she sometimes have such un-Christian thoughts?
“What may we be helpin’ yeh with, miss?”
“Cyanide,” she murmured under her breath, moving bottles aside.
“I’m sorry, Miss Allene? I didn’t hear yeh.”
Allene turned. “Uh. Yes. The silver polish. I know it’s here somewhere.”
“Why, Lucy used it yesterday to clean all the house silver. Would you like me to polish somethin’ for yeh now?”
“No, no. I just wanted to check something.”
She moved aside jars and bottles of every sort, for cleaning and scrubbing and such, but the metal can of polish was nowhere to be seen. It was always here, on the second shelf, next to the bottle of lemon oil and the box of bluing. A telltale ring of rust showed where it usually lived.
Allene furrowed her brow. “Where is Lucy?” she asked.
“Lucia?” The maid said her name with almost a sneer.
Amongst the servants, Lucy wasn’t a favorite. Perhaps because she was a favorite of Allene’s. Perhaps because lady’s maids with Mediterranean complexions were not often seen on Fifth Avenue. Allene didn’t spend too much time considering it. Every society had its own dramas, even within a single home, her mother had warned her. Here, Allene saw nothing but a household running well.
“Do you know where she is?” Allene asked again.
The cook walked by with a large dish of scalloped potatoes. “I believe she stepped out, Miss Allene. Said you sent her on an errand.”
Allene planted a smile on her face before she could show her surprise. “Of course, I remember now.”
But there was nothing to remember. She’d not sent Lucy on an errand. Granted, Lucy did run errands for her all the time, and Allene had been so preoccupied lately that maybe she’d simply forgotten.
But that wouldn’t explain the missing silver polish.
She had vivid visions of a gloved finger swiping a smear of creamy silver polish along the inside of a champagne flute. It would need only a thin film, nothing that one would notice once the liquid was poured, for the champagne bubbles would obscure any signs of polish. That might be enough. She thought of the bruised coloring on Florence’s skin and closed her eyes.
The slow and steady footsteps of her father’s elderly butler, George—who had come out of retirement when their younger butler joined the war—echoed in the foyer. He welcomed someone before the front door was shut. Allene’s heart began to dance within her chest. It couldn’t be Birdie or Andrew. Which meant it must be Jasper. She calmed herself and pinched her cheeks, rubbing her lips together to make them cherry bright. Her fingers grazed over her loose light-brown curls, smoothing them as she walked to the foyer.
George stood stiffly at the ready, the outline of a gentleman behind his considerable frame.
“If you please, Miss Allene. You have a visitor.”
Allene strode forward, smiling. But her smile disappeared as George stepped aside.
“Mr. Ernest Fielding.”
Ernie must have seen her enthusiasm deflate; his own smile wilted. He seemed to understand his position as an ersatz Jasper, or Andrew, for that matter.
She wished she hadn’t pinched her cheeks so. They were damned sore now. With as much energy as she could muster, she said, “How nice to see you, Ernie.” Allene couldn’t bear to be confined within four walls with Ernie, of all people. She motioned to the french doors at the other end of the salon. “Let’s have a seat outside in the garden, shall we?”