“Dawlish, you need to drive faster. Much faster.”
He did, and the three of them felt the tug of the engine dragging them through the streets. As soon as they arrived at the Cutter house, Jasper expected Allene to bolt to the door and run upstairs, but he was surprised to see her making painstaking efforts to help Birdie out of the automobile without hurting her further. Maybe she’d forgiven Birdie for her comment about money. Then again, maybe she knew she deserved it.
Once they were on the sidewalk, Jasper carefully picked Birdie up in his arms. She was gossamer light, which shocked him. The electric lights outside the house showed what he hadn’t noticed inside the factory. Birdie’s collarbones protruded and the bumps of her sternum showed above the neckline of her dress. Slim hollows carved out her temples, which previously had been covered carefully with poufs of blonde hair.
“Don’t,” Birdie said. Her eyes couldn’t meet his, aware he was judging, understanding, realizing. “Don’t,” she repeated, so low that only Jasper heard. He turned his eyes forward, and Birdie sagged with relief in his arms, now unburdened by his astute eyes. Allene bustled forward to speak to the butler, who held the door ajar.
“How’s Father?”
“He’s resting,” George replied.
“Are you sure?” she asked hurriedly, glancing up the stairs.
“Yes.” George was his usual laconic self; everything must be well.
Allene sighed with relief. “Thank goodness! Please call for Lucy, and fetch the doctor. Tell him we’ll pay him double for the visit. We need to be absolutely sure Father is all right, and he needs to see Birdie too. Jasper, put her in my bedroom. There’s an adjoining bath, and it’ll be easier to care for her there.”
“Of course.” The elderly butler nodded. “But I shall have to send Josephine. We cannot find Lucy at the moment.”
Allene froze at the doorway, and her face paled. “What on earth do you mean, you can’t find Lucy?”
“We haven’t seen her for over an hour. We’ve called for her several times.”
“I don’t understand,” Allene said. “I didn’t send Lucy anywhere. Where could she be?”
She turned and looked up the wide staircase, left to the parlor and the garden, right toward her father’s study. Before anyone could utter another word, she gathered her skirts in her fists and bolted up the stairs.
Jasper couldn’t follow her, not with Birdie in his arms. Instead, he followed Josephine, the Irish maid with the dumpling chin, up the grand staircase. Allene’s room was just as he remembered it from the fateful night of the engagement party—stuffed with frills and furbelows. He gingerly laid Birdie on the bed, and Josephine went to run the water in the adjoining bath. She returned with a severe expression on her face and made a shooing motion with her thick hands.
“I’ll take care of Miss Birdie now. You go wait for the surgeon.”
“I’ll be fine, Jasper. Go,” Birdie whispered.
He nodded and stepped out of the bedroom, shutting the door. He wanted to talk to the doctor about Birdie’s leg break—and why on earth she looked so sickly. His heart sank at the possibility that she was being poisoned as well. Were he and Allene next in line? All around him, people were falling sick and disappearing. He called out to the other rooms.
“Where are you, Allene?”
Allene came running out of a hallway door. Her face was awful—contorted and shocked. She suddenly looked both very young and very old—too old for her eighteen years.
“Oh God, I’ve found her, Jasper! Come!” She darted into the room, and Jasper followed her swiftly.
Inside was a bathroom finer than even his own from years ago uptown. Hidden behind the claw-foot porcelain bathtub, Lucy lay flat on her back. She wore her usual livery of crisp white apron, snowy cap, and black stuff dress on her slim frame. But her eyes were closed and she breathed rapidly, as if she’d just run a mile. Sweat beaded her face. Her usually smooth cheeks of golden tan were far darker than usual, as if ink had seeped beneath her skin.
“What is it? Do you think she’s been poisoned too?” Allene asked, as she lifted Lucy’s limp hand.
Jasper kneeled beside Lucy and put his ear to her bosom. He heard a wet, crackling noise with every rise and fall of her chest. Her lungs were drowning in liquid. He felt her pulse, nothing but a thin trill under his fingertips. Her nail beds were bluish. He pulled down her lower lip. Instead of the pink color he’d hoped for, he saw a dusky purplish hue.
“I don’t think she’s been poisoned,” Jasper said slowly.
“Oh, thank God!” Allene gasped. But Jasper shook his head.
“Allene, it’s worse. She’s got influenza. One of the bad cases.” He began to lift Lucy’s unconscious body. Dark blood, almost black, dripped from Lucy’s nostrils. “This is bad, Allene. Very bad. She must have contracted it from your father.”
“But he wasn’t that ill. He had a mild case! He’s doing fine now!”
“I’ve seen what comes through the morgue. A good number of the dead are young, like us. Lucy is how old? About thirty-five or so, right? For some reason, people your father’s age aren’t getting hit as hard. It’s picking off our healthiest men and women, and I haven’t the faintest idea why.” He hoisted her in his arms; they were tired from carrying Birdie too, light as she was. A reddish froth, bubbling up from her lungs, seeped out of Lucy’s mouth and stained his jacket, but he ignored it. Blood smeared her face in too many places now. “Where can we put her?”
Allene didn’t answer him. She stood unmoving in the bathroom, staring at Lucy but not seeing her. Jasper grew irritated—there was no time for her to reflect on how she’d lose the convenience of her own maid or her own room. It was times like this that he truly despised Allene; she was always thinking of how everything affected her own sphere and never looking beyond it.
“Allene!” he barked.
She jerked out of her reverie. “The second guest bedroom,” she said. She looked up at Jasper, who was surprised by her words—he’d expected a string of complaints and whines. “Put her there, away from the other servants. We can’t have them get sick too. I’d rather nurse her than send her to the hospitals. She’ll get better care with us, don’t you think?”
This time, it was his turn to be jarred out of silence. “Yes. The hospitals are overrun. And since she’s—” He stopped in midthought. There was no question that a certain class of patients in the city weren’t receiving the care they needed. “You’re right. She won’t get the proper attention. But I could help. I’ve overheard some of the doctors talking about treatments that no one else has tried, perhaps blood transfusions—”
“Does it work?” Allene asked hurriedly.
“I don’t know. I’m just guessing—”