The gesture was unnecessary. Birdie knew her way around the Cutter house in the dark. She had been born here, after all—her mother too. The Dreyer women had always been lady’s companions to the Cutters, with their own rooms and allowances and personal maids. For three generations, they’d been a part of the Cutter family, until they weren’t. Until Mrs. Cutter decided that her case of consumption should be blamed on the prettier Hazel Dreyer—and the scourge and her daughter should leave the Cutter house forever.
And here Birdie was again, after all these years. She didn’t want to go back home to Brooklyn. Their life there was a cancer that was slowly eating away at their worth, and women like the Dreyers—with no money and no patrician blood running through their veins—had precious little to begin with.
It was too late for her mother. Maybe even for Birdie herself. But when Allene’s engagement invitation showed up encased in its cream linen envelope, Birdie’s heart had fluttered with hope. It was the first correspondence she’d received since she’d left. Allene never replied to Birdie’s letters, so she had stopped sending them. There was no pleasure in writing to a void.
Allene didn’t even know Holly existed. But the invitation nudged her optimism. With Birdie’s toe in the door, maybe Allene could meet Holly. Maybe she could help them, somehow, before it was too late. Birdie would swallow her pride for Holly’s sake. She would swallow her fear too. The Cutter house had spit her and her mother out. There was a good chance she’d tear those scarred memories wide open again.
Lucy led her to the study before curtsying. Her dark eyes seemed judging, and she’d been tight on smiles ever since Birdie had arrived that evening. It was no surprise. Lucy had gone from playing chambermaid to filling Birdie’s shoes after she was disinvited from the Cutter house. The way Allene whispered and leaned toward Lucy—it wasn’t the ordering around of any ordinary servant. Allene would have needed someone the way she’d needed Birdie all those years. Lucy was even the same height as Birdie, but with staunch hips and shoulders, used to hard work. But now that Birdie was growing closer in Allene’s heart as the minutes ticked by, Lucy no doubt imagined that her position was already changing. Ranks were falling.
“Thank you, Lucy,” Birdie said. But the maid had already turned her back. Birdie shrugged and picked up the candlestick phone on the desk. When the switch operator answered, Birdie told her it was an emergency. Casual telephone calls were frowned upon due to the war.
The operator rang the apartment, and the landlady—the only tenant in the building with a telephone—answered and went to fetch her mother. Minutes ticked by.
“This is Hazel Dreyer speaking.”
“Mother, it’s me, Birdie,” she said in a low voice, hoping to keep the conversation quiet. “I’m staying over at the Cutter house tonight. There’s been a terrible accident.”
Usually, there was a telltale click of telephones hanging up on the party line, but this time, everyone near Birdie’s building listened. The Bradleys across the street; the Salzki sisters in the building next door. So much for privacy.
“At the Cutter house,” her mother repeated through a crackle of static.
God, yes. Here, of all places. “Yes, Mother. It’s very important. Allene asked me to stay.”
“I see.”
There were a thousand statements in those two words, but the worst was the implication that she was abandoning her family for the Cutters, who’d become monsters in her and her mother’s eyes.
Her mother released a long sigh. “Are you quite sure?”
“Yes.”
Another long sigh. “Well, if you must.”
“Thank you. And Mother? Please stay with Holly tonight.” She bit her lip. “Just Holly.”
“Birdie. You know I can’t. Rent is due soon.”
“I’m asking you. Please stay with Holly. She’ll be frightened without me. I’ll make up for it. I’ll work extra hours at the factory.”
“Very well.” Her mother’s voice sounded ironed out. Birdie hoped there was some room for affection in there, something left over for Holly. As for herself, she didn’t care. It had been a long time since she’d expected anything of that sort for herself. So she was surprised when her mother asked, “How is your tooth?”
“Fine, Mother.” Birdie reached with her other hand to cradle her left jaw. She’d had a sore molar for weeks now, and it was on the verge of falling out. Thank goodness the swelling had calmed enough to go unnoticed at the party, but it hurt to chew. She hadn’t eaten a morsel all day. But her tooth wasn’t the only thing wrong. She hadn’t told Mother or Holly about her aching joints, the pain in her thigh bone, the chronic tiredness that made her cry for more sleep, or the other loose teeth.
In bits and pieces, Birdie was falling apart. She was running out of time. She thought of Allene, and Jasper’s coffee-warm kiss, and Florence’s dead gaze. But mostly, she thought of Holly.
Oh God, Birdie thought. Please give me more time.
The switch operator interrupted. “I am getting another caller on the line.”
“It’s all right. We’re done here,” Birdie said.
Immediately, she heard the click of no less than four other households hanging up.
“Good-bye. I’ll see you—”
Her mother hung up before she finished her sentence. Outside in the corridor, Lucy waited, expressionless, those large black eyes watching everything. The main floor was deserted of servants and guests. An eerie quiet had settled into the bones of the house. Lucy led her down the hallway, and Mr. Cutter bumped into them at the base of the staircase. Birdie shrank from the contact.
“Oh. Miss Dreyer. You look quite like your mother now.” It should have been a compliment, but his voice was flat. There was a curl of a sneer at the corner of his bulbous nose. Unlike most of the men at the party that night, her beauty held no magic for him. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something bitter. But Birdie knew her place.
“Thank you,” Birdie replied. She dropped her eyes and waited for him to order her out of the house. After all, she reminded him of scandals and gossip, and of her mother and his wife.
But he didn’t throw her out. The butler called to Mr. Cutter, and he turned on his heel without another word. And Birdie was grateful.
She followed Lucy to one of the spare bedrooms—Birdie’s old room. Gone were the bits of pink and red ribbon she used to collect, or the playbills she’d acquired and trapped in the edges of the dressing mirror. The room was sterile and simple now, with a woven white spread, white pillows, and white brocade-covered chair. Birdie had been bleached right out of the room.
“I’ve laid out a nightgown for you,” Lucy said, matter-of-factly. She didn’t offer to help her undress. It was no surprise, but it was a snub no less. Like her mother, Birdie had once been used to the maids’ attention. But she didn’t deserve that kind of care anymore.
When the door shut, she peeled off her showy, borrowed dress; unhooked her confining brassiere and underthings; and slipped on the lawn nightgown. She’d only just dropped the hem to her ankles when Allene walked right in, wearing a frilly nightgown and a rose-colored robe cinched about her waist. She didn’t bother to knock. Birdie’s privacy seemed to belong to Allene once again.