It was a lovely walled garden with lush ivy climbing the brick on two sides. A single, locked ironwork gate opened onto Fifth Avenue, and the paved bluestone walkways were cleanly swept of debris. Even the moss and creeping thyme in the cracks behaved and grew only where allowed. Mother’s rosebushes had long since bloomed and faded, and now the pink and purple dahlias were on display along the walls. A few birds chirped merrily, while the slower Sunday motorcar noise crept over the walls.
Allene sat on an iron bench, and Ernie leaned against a peach tree laden with ripe fruit. His clothes were neat and impeccably fine. And there was that hair—that dirty shade of blond with the slight curl that he’d combed into submission with goose grease. In a photo, he’d be considered handsome, but in reality, he oozed a milk-and-water personality.
“I came by to see if you were all right,” Ernie said, eyes wide with concern. “Last night was quite a scare. You must be dead tired.”
“I’m well, Ernie. Thanks for asking.”
For a long stretch, neither of them said a word. Allene fussed with a thread at the hem of her emerald skirt while Ernie looked appraisingly around the garden, reminding her of a time when they were ten, and Ernie had come over while all the mothers had tea in the salon. Birdie and Jasper and Allene had been on the cusp of putting the last touches on a camera obscura they’d created from onionskin paper and nicked cigar boxes (the missing cigars, her father would be upset to find later, were piled in a handkerchief drawer). Soon, they might stare at ghostly images of each other within the box, because in reality they couldn’t get enough of each other. Birdie especially would look so angelic and quizzical imprinted onto the thin onionskin paper within the camera obscura. Allene could imagine staring for hours. They needed to steal only one more box to make the top, when Ernie showed up.
“What are you doing? Can I play? Did you see Oliver Twist at the theater yet? I did! Splendid! Say, do you want to play Lasca? I brought the game with me. Are you hungry? Did you see those tea cakes? They looked jolly good!”
It was too much Ernie, in the way, all the time. Even now in the garden, Allene pitied him, but her pity didn’t sink in very deep. She was too annoyed for that.
“It was good to see Jasper and Birdie after all these years,” Ernie said at last. “They were a good-looking couple.”
“They aren’t a couple,” Allene said. Perhaps too quickly. “Good looking, yes. Although Jasper could do with a nicer suit.”
More silence. Good God, how long would this conversation last?
“How is your cousin?” he said after some time.
“Who?”
“The one in the war.”
“Oh. Clarence. I don’t know. I believe he’s all right.”
“Well, it’ll be my turn soon,” he said. His chest puffed out a bit.
“Ugh. Why are boys always in such a hurry to die?” Allene said, almost to herself. “You know, those trenches are full of filth. Lice and rats and such. And influenza has been killing the Germans all summer.”
“Let it kill the Krauts. It won’t get me,” he said brightly.
Spoken like someone who knew nothing of suffering. Allene would know; she recognized the empty bravado in herself.
After a long pause, Ernie changed the subject. “I suppose Andrew is pretty upset. He seemed to be having a swell time chatting with Florence last night. A regular old gabfest.”
His words had their desired effect.
“Yes, I suppose they did talk a bit last night.” She remembered how Andrew had removed Florence from her vicinity. “What did they speak of, if I may ask?”
“Oh! A jolly good number of things.” He ticked off a list, finger by finger. “The Petersons’ wedding last month. How she hated everyone for being so damned artificial and they all hated her back for gossiping, when all she ever said was the truth.”
“Really,” Allene said. So she wasn’t the only person who despised Florence.
Ernie forged on. “And Florence was annoyed that her European tour was on hold because of the war. And she hated the Kentucky Derby. In Kentucky, you know.” Allene groaned inwardly. “They had me send for champagne, a few times actually.”
“Oh. Did they?” Allene asked, disappointed. It all sounded rather undramatic. “Did . . . did Florence drink a lot?”
“Oh, yes. She’s no bluenose, let me tell you. I think she was rather crocked by the third round. She had trouble walking. Andrew didn’t though. Good thing too, since she was holding onto him.”
“I see.”
“And then they had a row.”
“What?” Allene’s voice rose in pitch.
“Yes. But I don’t know what about. Florence was trying to go upstairs to find you three, and he was holding her back by the arm. Oh, she was really angry at your fiancé. She said, ‘You have no idea what you want, Andrew!’ That was all I heard, because when I told them the servant had brought more champagne, Florence excused herself.”
Allene pursed her lips, feeling chilled. What on earth had Andrew and Florence been discussing? She took a breath. “And then?”
“And then, a little while later, she was falling down the stairs.”
“Where was Andrew then?”
Just then, the french doors opened. Allene tempered a squeal of surprise. Her father stood in the doorway, still dressed in his overcoat from church. He frowned at her show of discomposure, then reached out a hand and shook Ernie’s.
“Ernest. Good to see you. Got any new financial advice for me?”
“Oh, heaps! I’ll bend your ear whenever you want.”
“Did you arrive with Andrew?”
“He’ll be back momentarily,” Allene explained. She didn’t mention Birdie. “How was church?”
“Abominable. Word’s got round about poor Florence’s accident.” His brown eyes flicked to Allene, warning her to behave. Her sore arms reminded her of the previous night’s conversation. “Her family cabled that they’ll arrive tomorrow. The funeral is set for Friday.”
The funeral. She’d be surrounded by Florence’s family and a sea of too many people. There would be grieving, and gossip, and whispered questions beneath wide-brimmed, black-lace hats. Allene might go mad from the piercing stares that would come her way.
Footsteps approached behind them, and Allene’s mouth dropped when Lucy curtsied at the doorway to the garden.
“Miss Allene. Mr. Cutter. Mr. Fielding. May I bring tea and biscuits?” Lucy asked.
“Lucy!” Allene squeaked. “You’re back!”
“I’m sorry, miss. Did you ring for me? I went to pick up some of that powder you’ve been wanting.”
Allene was utterly confused. She didn’t recall asking Lucy to procure any powder. And now the silver polish was missing, and Florence had been arguing with Andrew last night. Father noticed her shocked expression, and he raised his eyebrows at her. If eyebrows could speak, they’d tell her to act like a normal Cutter woman.
Which she couldn’t. How had she gotten out of her depth so quickly?
CHAPTER 8
Jasper followed Dr. Norris up the oak staircase. The odor in the stairwell was a familiar one—a mix of musty wood, soapsuds, and nose-stinging formaldehyde. Vaguely, he remembered that he was supposed to be cleaning this building top to bottom. He would get in trouble if he didn’t finish. And then, as if aware that Jasper’s mind was wandering, Dr. Norris barked at him.