It was a lovely establishment. The doormen were in beautiful uniforms with bright, polished brass buttons that Holly would have coveted. There was a red carpet and polished glass windows and eyes—a few too many—on her drab work dress and clunky shoes. This was how she would remember the day later. A mix of blurred images and thoughts, as if her story were playing in grainy black and white at the Strand Theatre.
Andrew never checked in because he had planned everything beforehand with a good deal of hope and optimism. He’d no idea that Birdie would be so compliant. He turned a brass key on the fifth floor, and inside was a bed made with rich ruby-red damask and soft down-filled pillows fluffed within an inch of their lives. Nearby was an armoire filled with lacy pink-and-cream satin negligees; they probably would fit her figure flawlessly. She saw a claw-foot desk and fancy stationery, a silver platter with wine and water. The scent of roses mixed with the tang of lemon-oil polish, hiding the smells of whoever had slept in the room before. Soon, it would hide Birdie’s presence too.
She stood at the foot of the bed, staring at the linens. They were worth more than she earned in a month. And when Andrew stood behind her, his heat penetrating the thin material of her dress, she shivered. Taking her shudder as encouragement, he began to slowly unbutton the back of her dress, slipping the frock off her shoulders. Off came her loosely laced brassiere and underthings, her stockings and shoes. He even relished taking the hairpins from her knot of hair, letting her hair tumble over her thin shoulders.
His hands were on her belly, her hips, her breasts. Lips on her neck. On her earlobes.
How did I get here? Birdie wondered, before she silenced herself.
You’re here. So be here.
Wordlessly, Andrew undressed himself and laid her on the bed, kissing her on the lips gently. Too gently. She pulled away and shook her head.
“No. Not there.”
She let him puzzle out the rest. He would do his best, trying to kiss her body awake though she was dry as sawdust. And when he climbed on top of her, she cried out in pain from the weight of him on her fragile bones, her joints rebelling from the angles of her hips.
“Golly, I’m sorry!” Andrew exclaimed, face full of worry.
“I’m breakable,” Birdie reminded him, breathless.
Gentleman to the end, Andrew held himself aloft with his arms. But he hurt her anyway, unknowingly, as he canted into her, the tempo of their bodies singing the same bitter song in her head.
She didn’t remember how many times Andrew made love to her in that hotel room. She didn’t remember how she got home that day, or how she ended up back at the hotel the following week, and the week after that.
She had tried so hard not to become Hazel, and it had happened anyway.
CHAPTER 14
September 11, 1918
Three weeks.
Well, two weeks and five days. Nearly three weeks, which was well-nigh unacceptable.
That’s how long it had been since Florence’s funeral, since Allene had been together with Jasper and Birdie alone. Far too long.
She perched at her vanity, readying herself to do something she absolutely shouldn’t. She’d sat here since after breakfast, fiddling with the contents locked in the vanity drawer. The broken glass from the champagne flute Florence had been drinking from at the party was hidden in one of her father’s empty cigar boxes, shoved to the back of the drawer. She had thought about purchasing the equipment and chemicals to test it for cyanide, but Father had found her perusing her favorite Central Scientific Company catalogue and forbidden it. Josephine, who was more afraid of Mr. Cutter than Allene, was charged with destroying any similar catalogues that entered the house.
At the reception after Florence’s funeral, Allene had overheard Mr. Waxworth stating that he would bequeath the majority of their estate to a trust benefitting the arts or a hospital in North Carolina, near their tobacco estate. Clearly, there was no usurper in line to grab Florence’s money. Allene had been waiting to meet with Jasper and Birdie to tell them so. Three weeks of waiting.
Knowing that Florence died of cyanide made everything worse—they knew the partial truth. But partials weren’t good enough—the how and the why and the who, those were the truths she wanted to learn.
She refused to throw away the shard. Not yet. Lucy knocked on the door, and she hastily shut the drawer, turning the key.
“Are you ready, Miss Allene? Shall I call for the motor?”
“Oh. No, Lucy. That won’t be necessary.”
The door opened. Lucy’s brown eyes quizzed her. “Are you quite sure, miss? All that shopping without a driver?”
“I’m quite sure.” She smiled, but it felt painted on. Lucy stepped into the room, turned Allene to face the mirror, and picked up a tortoiseshell comb.
“You’re just like your mother, you know.” Lucy smoothed an errant strand on Allene’s head, and Allene reflexively closed her eyes. Her hands were so gentle. “They say before she was married, she was . . . what is the word . . . restless.”
“Was she?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Lucy picked up a pink silk ribbon and expertly wove it around the twist of her knot. “I was, too, when my mother brought me here from Sicily as a child. I wanted to be an actress.” She laughed, another rare one. “Young and very restless.”
Allene turned around. “You make it sound like it’s all over. Like you’re so old now!”
“No. I’m only thirty-five. But an old thirty-five.”
“And I’m sweet eighteen!” Allene grinned. “I can’t imagine you being anything but a saint, Lucy. What dramas did you have?”
“Never mind that. I am a saint now.” She smiled. “I have to be.” She said nothing for several moments, like she was seeing something inside herself. Then she shook off the memory and continued. “Your mother finally settled in after she married your father. It’s too bad she’s still ill.”
Yes, too bad. For someone so stricken with consumption as to remove herself to a sanatorium for nearly four years, Mother sure seemed to die awful slow. Or, as Allene had begun to suspect lately, maybe it was just a convenient excuse not to be with her father. Or Allene.
Lucy drew away, but her eyes softened. Everyone, including Lucy, knew what manner of cage Allene was entering with marriage.
“You’ll be all right, child. The Cutter women are always strong.”
Allene fought the sting in her eyes and nodded. Lucy bent down and plucked a book from the floor, where it was peeking out from the ruffled bed skirt. Cohen’s Practical Organic Chemistry, her recent night reading. The maid covered it in some discarded clothing, hugging it gently to her chest.
“You need to hide your secrets a little better, Miss Allene. I’ll be sure your father doesn’t see me put it back on the shelf.”
Allene thought of the missing silver polish that Lucy had waved away with finality. “And you? Do you have secrets too, Lucy?”
“Don’t be silly. I am an open book. You need only to look to find the answers.” She withdrew, the hidden book cradled to her bosom.