“She’s right,” Carolyn put in. “The idea is to make a sort of spectacle of it and to put us in the public eye. We want the President and his generals to see the speed and secrecy by which a bird can deliver missives in wartime.”
“We do need a spectacle, which means you’ll have to ask Carrie to write a newspaper story,” Norma said, “although my name won’t be in it, and she won’t be allowed to fill it with lies.”
“That’s just fine,” Constance said. “She’ll be delighted. I’ll leave you to your letter-writing.”
She tried to disappear back into the house, but Norma had a list of chores that required four hands. After a little more discussion with Carolyn, Norma sent her on her way so they could finish.
It was only a few minutes later that another motor car arrived and Fleurette disembarked. Mr. Impediment hauled a trunk out and deposited it upon their porch, along with more hat-boxes, handbags, and wraps than she possibly could’ve left with. He tipped his hat to all three of them and drove away, leaving Fleurette anchored to her spot in the drive, staring at Norma and Constance.
What a sight they made! There was Fleurette, in a little day dress of blue and white foulard, with pearl buttons at the neck and a matching set along her hatband—and here was Norma in her muddiest old divided skirt and a sweater that must have belonged to Francis, and Constance in the corduroy number that was her night-dress at the jail, which she’d brought home to wash but ended up sleeping in once again instead. Neither of them looked as though they’d seen a comb or a powder puff in their lives, while Fleurette’s hair was done to a high gloss and she wore a shade of claret-colored lip-stick that seemed to have been made for her.
She didn’t look like a little girl dressing up in her mother’s clothes anymore. She hadn’t in some time, really, but that realization was made all the more startling by her sudden and unexpected appearance in the drive.
Fleurette spoke first. “Did I see Mrs. Borus go past?”
“She was just here with some very important news,” Constance said. “Norma’s pigeons are going to Washington.”
“Not my pigeons,” Norma said. “Other pigeons. Constance still doesn’t understand it.”
Fleurette drew closer and Constance managed to get an arm around her. “I sent you postcards,” she said.
“Yes, and we found them very thrilling,” Constance said. “All that lobster and Champagne.”
“Not so very much Champagne,” she said. “And four girls to a room. I didn’t tell you that part. I awoke every morning to Charlotte Babcock’s feet on my pillow.”
“I don’t suppose they let you out to have any fun at all?” Constance asked, trying to sound sympathetic. “Mrs. Ward must have so many admirers. I’m sure you had invitations.”
“Oh, we had our wild times,” Fleurette said. “Men can’t resist a girl on stage. But I was too exhausted from doing two shows a night. It’s quite a different pace than Mrs. Hansen’s. One has to adapt to a life on the stage.”
She squirmed away and released a cloud of some new perfume—lilies of the valley, maybe, or jasmine. It was expensive, whatever it was, and a mighty battle waged in Constance’s mind between the forces that wanted to know who had purchased it for her, and those that believed it better to leave that question unanswered.
Constance followed Fleurette into the house. Norma washed her hands at the pump in the barn and came in behind them.
Fleurette looked around at the dim parlor and sighed. “Nothing’s changed around here. Nothing ever changes. I’ve gone off and traveled all over five states, and seen new faces everywhere I go, and learned a dozen new songs and performed to thousands, and what’s new around here? Absolutely nothing.”
Norma and Constance busied themselves bringing in Fleurette’s bags, which were still piled on the porch. She’d obviously grown accustomed to having someone else carry her things. Constance thought it might not be such a good idea to give the impression that she’d be taking on those duties, but she did it anyway. Norma raised an eyebrow at Constance just once, when she spotted a new red and gold embossed hat-box with a tag attached bearing May Ward’s name. It must have been a gift. As far as Constance could tell, Mrs. Ward had kept her secret.
“I suppose you’ve been down at that gloomy old jail all this time,” Fleurette said. “Did you arrest anybody while I was gone? Did you catch a thief, or a murderer?”
“She found a job at the powder works for a girl,” Norma said.
Fleurette let out a bright and dismissive laugh. “Is that all they pay you to do—put girls into factory jobs?”
Norma said, “Just yesterday we had a letter from a moving picture man inviting Constance to make a picture about a lady deputy who rescues girls from white slavers.”
“I wouldn’t like to see a picture about that,” Fleurette said. “Write them back and tell them she has a younger sister who’s so pretty she’s been threatened with kidnapping. Perhaps I can go missing and you can come to my rescue.”
Constance tried very hard not to look at Norma. “That sounds awfully dull.”
“Not as dull as this old farmhouse.” She unpinned her hat and handed it to Constance, the way she might pass something to a valet.
“I could arrange to have someone shoot at us again, if you’d like that better,” Constance said. “Or aren’t you about to go right back out on tour?”
Fleurette wandered into her sewing room. She ran her hand over her sewing machine, and the bolts of fabric, and all the spools of thread hung on pegs on the wall. “I wouldn’t mind sleeping in my own room for a while, with all my things,” she said, a little quietly.
Constance carried her bags upstairs, quickly, before she could change her mind.