What did Lucy mean by that? Allene remembered again how her mother had told her about secrets. “As you turn into a lady, you’ll know which ones to bury forever.” Allene hadn’t understood then, but she did now.
She pulled two folded letters from her vanity drawer. The first piece of disappointment was a letter from Jasper, written two weeks ago. He’d been working almost sixteen-hour shifts at the medical examiner’s office, accompanying the staff to crime scenes, keeping the log books organized, ordering supplies, and answering the telephone that never ceased to ring.
The Great Green Allene! My Spleen!
Ugh. Would he ever forget those dratted childish nicknames? They were so utterly unattractive.
I’m working like the deuce. Apparently I mean more to the ME than my own sleep, they keep me so blame busy. So our investigation of poor Florence shall have to wait. Let me know if you hear anything. Give my best to Birdie, and kiss that Andrew for me. He’s so absogoldarnlutely handsome, isn’t he?
Exhaustedly yours,
Jasper
Allene could practically hear him laughing at her. The fire that had brought them together had gone out. Not just gone out, but been buried six feet under in the Evergreens. And meanwhile, Birdie had sent her an altogether different kind of note. Short, but not so sweet.
Dearest Allene,
Mother is ill again. I won’t be able to make it. See you soon?
Love,
Birdie
She had not received another letter from Birdie or from Jasper to follow up with their plans. Honestly, was it so hard to dip the so-called quill and send her another note? Allene had written notes to them both, and they’d gone unanswered.
And these last few days, Allene had met with her mother-in-law and spoken with florists, the dressmaker, the caterer, deciding on whether they should have the filet mignon or veal sweetbreads for their wedding supper. Mother would, of course, approve from afar. Her letters, however rare they were, lately were all by proxy, written by her nursemaids. She had little to say about anything at all. Allene tried to cry, but her eyes stayed dry.
The wedding invitations—thick cream cards with engraved script—had gone out days after Florence’s funeral. Already, the majority of the handwritten replies had been received. There would be over three hundred guests.
Minus two.
Jasper and Birdie had yet to reply. Allene would have been ecstatic if they’d refused. It would have meant a confrontation, a row. And she’d have been a little perturbed if they’d accepted, because it wouldn’t have been in person and because Jasper hadn’t counteroffered with a proposal that promised high drama.
But no reply? Absolutely unforgivable.
Allene refused to be ignored. She had decided to do something about it without risking Dawlish reporting back to her father. Five minutes later, she had walked out the front door of the Cutter house and headed toward Third Avenue. Later, the wizened butler would read her note, in which she promised to be back in several hours, and rub his chin with puzzlement: How could Miss Cutter simply let herself out—did she even know how to unlock the great brass door? But Allene relished the small rebellion. She held it inside herself, a glowing coal that would singe if she wasn’t careful. But she wouldn’t mind the sting. Anything to penetrate the numbness of wedding preparations.
As she passed the avenues, the beautiful houses gave way to smaller, shabbier buildings and storefronts. Before long, the Third Avenue El loomed and crossed Eighty-Fourth Street, a familiar blemish on the low skyline. This was how she had come home alone all those nights ago after their illicit stint in the morgue.
She fished out five cents from her purse like everyone else around her and boarded the train, wearing a self-satisfied smile. That is, until she realized she’d accidentally gone uptown. She switched trains at Eighty-Ninth Street, the smug grin scrubbed clean off her face.
When Allene got off at Houston Street, her head felt rattled from the ride. The two Els hulked over the streets, casting shadows and making the buildings look dirtier than they were. A few groups of people—young men—were talking excitedly over the newspaper headlines. Allene only heard scraps of words—“Finally!” and “Sick and tired of bumming around . . .”—before she walked on.
Laundry was festooned between buildings, waving cheerfully, and plumes of smoke dirtied the air from the motorcars going east and west. A few seedy men walked a mite too close. Allene hurried along, clutching her purse. She wished she had worn her older coat. Without missing a step, she tugged the pink ribbon out of her hair and stuffed it into her pocket.
Eldridge Street was soon before her, thank goodness, since her shoes were rubbing a blister on her heel. Inside the entranceway of Jasper’s tenement, a lady with a face like an overcooked dumpling was picking up old newspapers. She appraised Allene with bright, currant-like eyes.
“Is Mr. Jones in?”
“Tak,” she said, nodding, before grabbing a bundle of old Youth’s Companion magazines. Allene sidled past her, trying her darnedest not to touch anything. The stairwell here didn’t have the terrible outhouse stench of Birdie’s home but instead smelled vaguely like a chemistry lab. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Lovely.
At the top of the stairs, she knocked.
“Door’s open,” a muffled voice called.
She opened the door and stepped inside. It was one of those railroad apartments, where the rooms were strung like beads on a single thread. The sitting room was neat but spare. She noticed the peeling wallpaper and a pile of laundry on the couch that was carefully folded, recently pulled in from a window line. A brass receipt holder had impaled countless bills in what resembled a messy paper Christmas tree. She peered at it closely and saw repeating words on the edges.
Past Due. In Arrears. Third Notice.
She blinked and moved on, unwilling to touch a thing. This apartment wasn’t anything like her world, and she felt foreign within it. The next room was a bedroom, but the door was only open a crack. She could see bottles and cups haphazardly strewn on the floor, and a dirty shirt carelessly tossed near them. Someone snored from within. Allene didn’t dare to explore further.
The kitchen was unrecognizable as such. A glass chemistry apparatus took up most of the table space. Every inch of counter was crammed with bottles of various shapes and sizes. Crates of medicinals towered on the floor. It was utterly chaotic, yet Allene was warmed by the sight of so much glassware. Chemistry lived here, and it welcomed her as if she were finally home. She reached for one of the random brown bottles on the countertop and sniffed it delicately.
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”
Jasper was leaning against the door frame with a newspaper tucked under his arm, watching her. She hadn’t noticed him at all. She put the bottle down too fast, and it twirled on its bottom and tipped over.