And what was more, her mind couldn’t fathom what she was coming to understand, with shame and anger. She thought of herself and Birdie just over four years ago. They were still busy playing in the garden all the lovely summer days, when her mother had come down with consumption. Mother hadn’t looked ill, but she coughed once in a while. In retrospect, it was a hollow, fake cough. An act.
The Dreyers had packed up and left without any fanfare. She tried to remember Hazel Dreyer’s clothing at the time. For certain, it was morbid, gloomy stuff and shapeless, as if trying to hide her beauty. Allene hadn’t realized that she was hiding something else. She’d been too naive to see the obvious.
And there were other uncomfortable visions in her mind. Those nights when Birdie, who usually shared her bed with her mother, would sneak into Allene’s bedroom. She would seem upset but wouldn’t say anything. Allene had assumed it was nightmares, but now she understood that the nightmare was usurping Birdie’s place in the welcoming warmth of Hazel’s bed.
The vision of her father coupling with anyone—particularly Hazel Dreyer—drew acid up her throat. And there was Holly, who was no replica of Hazel or Birdie. She looked more like a Cutter, and Allene hadn’t even realized it.
Allene inhaled sharply.
Why, Holly was her sister! She was no longer an only child. It warmed her cheeks—a tiny morsel of goodness in all this atrocious news.
How could she have been so blind?
Allene let the coolness of the door temper the warmth rising in her face. Josephine approached with a pile of clean linens. A slight gust of air wafted by, as well as a familiar scent of cigars. Blue Ribbon. Her father’s favorite. He was somewhere nearby, his health improved to the point where he’d lit a cigar for the first time in weeks.
Suddenly, the walls were intolerably close. Birdie was too near, as was Josephine, the air stifling. She backed away from the door.
“Miss Allene? May I get you something?” Josephine asked.
She had to leave. Holly laughed somewhere downstairs, and the sweet brown scent of tobacco brought on a wave of nausea. The sick threatened to overtake her, but she forced it down.
This was not a home to her. This banister, these polished stairs, this golden-scrolled wallpaper—none of it belonged to her, none of it familiar. They had long concealed truths, and it had made her a stranger. She descended the stairs, dizzy from her thoughts. She didn’t wait for George to dig out her coat from the closet.
“Shall I ring Dawlish for you, miss?” George asked, startled.
“No, no.”
“Indeed, you look very ill! At least wear your mask if you venture outside,” he urged, and pushed a clean gauze mask into her hand. With her other hand, she snatched her reticule from the marble-topped table in the foyer.
The sun was halfway to the western city skyline, and peach-colored light fell on the quieting streets. Without knowing where her destination was, she walked eastward. A few times, her thoughts tumbled around and her feet forgot to move. And when she stopped, she heard footsteps also halt nearby. Allene twisted around, only to see other pedestrians walking and too busy to notice her. So she continued.
Before she knew what she was doing, she mounted the iron steps of the Second Avenue elevated train station, paid her fare, and stepped onto the uptown platform. She’d welcome dissolving into the crowd of quotidian commuters, but that became impossible when a familiar face turned to her with surprise.
“Why, Miss Allene!” Esther, the wizened cook, stood on the platform. She was dressed smartly in a woolen coat and polished black shoes, and her salt-and-pepper hair was coiled beneath a dark hat. She was standing only feet away, and Allene had hardly noticed. “Where are you going, miss?”
“I hardly know,” she said in truth. She blinked at Esther. “Where are you going?”
“Why, I am on my way to poor Lucy’s funeral.”
The funeral. She’d completely forgotten. She had known it would happen—these things do, after all—but as soon as the coroner had whisked away Lucy’s lifeless body, Allene had moved on to grieving over her inward loss and worrying about Birdie.
“Oh. Of course. I am too,” Allene replied quickly.
“It’s a mercy we’re allowed to attend,” Esther said. “I heard that in Boston, their health commissioner won’t allow any church gatherings. My, couldn’t Dawlish drive you, Miss Allene?”
“Oh. No, he couldn’t,” she said, not having any other explanation.
Esther’s hooded eyes glanced over Allene’s clothing. Besides the black armband, she wore a regular dress of pale-blue bombazine with lace edging. Not exactly funeral attire. But Esther knew her place and said nothing.
As the train rolled into the station, Allene once again had the uncomfortable sensation that eyes were on her or someone was too close behind, hovering. She and Esther took adjoining seats. Esther’s substantial hips touched Allene’s, and their elbows were but an inch from each other. She didn’t think they’d ever been so close before.
“Will your father be attending?” Esther asked.
“No.” Allene dropped her chin and stared into her lap. Funny how one question could fill her with shame. Would someone like Esther know that her father had been intimate with Hazel in his home? That he’d fathered a child under his wife’s nose? The flashing emotions on Allene’s face must have made her look unstable, because concern overtook Esther’s expression.
“Are you all right, miss? Where is your coat? You’ll catch your death.”
“Oh, it’s warm for me . . . I’m just worried because I’m not wearing black.” Allene felt frayed and had to bring herself to calm, even if it meant fibbing. “You see, my one black dress was ruined yesterday.”
“Ah. I’m sure everyone will understand. After all, you were Lucy’s favorite at the Cutter house. It’s so kind of you to come, Miss Allene. Very kind, indeed.”
The warm words ricocheted off Allene’s frigid demeanor. Today would end up being a memorial to a servant, and Allene had no place in receiving praise of any sort. Normally, she enjoyed a bit of lamplight on herself, but she wished to be made of shadow and ash and disappear into the background.
She thought of how Lucy’s death had stolen momentum from Jasper’s loss. They still didn’t understand who had killed his uncle or who had killed Florence and Hazel. Why, they knew nothing, really. And then their discussion had devolved into the most poisonous shouting match she’d ever had. Jasper would never forgive Allene. Nausea lurched in her stomach, but she took a deep breath to keep it at bay.
The elevated train went deep into East Harlem, and the landscape of stately houses and marble fronts changed to drab tenements, row houses, and storefronts. A hand-painted sign outside a fountain shop read, “Support our Harlem Hellfighters!” Allene had no idea what it meant.