One of her “spells.” Ha.
“Is something unsatisfactory, Miss Sail?”
I blink and realize that I just snorted at the package the clerk offered me. “No, nothing at all. Thank you for your assistance.”
“Thank you for your business.”
As we exit the clothing store, Matthew smiles and sweeps open the back door of the Duesenberg for us. He touches the brim of his flat cap as I pass by him. “It looks as though the stop was a success.”
“It was. Thank you.” The brusqueness in my voice seems to go unnoticed by him.
It’s unfair to be so angry with Matthew when he was only trying to be efficient with his work time, but I can’t seem to silence the accusations in my head. That if Matthew had been there, if Lydia hadn’t been left alone yesterday afternoon, somehow the seizure never would have happened.
I look back to the door, where Lydia stands beaming up at Matthew. She speaks in too private a voice for me to overhear, but whatever it is, Matthew smiles too. With a pang, I think of Lydia’s blush as she gazed at the cufflinks inside the store. Where is my sensible and proper friend?
I dread the moment I become sweet on someone. It seems to turn your brain to mush.
“Oh, Matthew.” Lydia’s voice is breathy with laughter as she ducks inside the car.
The door closes behind her, and I tuck my parcel between us. Lydia arranges her red curls over her shoulder as she watches Matthew slide around the front of the car. Under the wide brim of her hat, and with the way she styled her hair today, I can’t even see the scrape from yesterday. But something—frustration? Exhaustion? Stupidity?—makes me ask anyway.
“How did you hurt yourself, Lydia?”
Her chuckle holds embarrassment as her fingertips graze her temple. “Oh dear, can you see it? It looks worse than it is, I assure you.” She presses her fingers to her mouth to cover a yawn. “Just one of my fainting spells. You’re the first to ask about it today. I thought I had concealed it nicely.”
I keep my gaze on the straps of my black shoes. They turn to blurs.
Matthew climbs in the car, and Lydia leans forward. “My, that wind today!”
As he pulls out into traffic, she continues to chat with him in the animated, artful way we’ve learned in etiquette classes.
Watching her flirt somehow makes the truth feel like a smack in the face—Lydia has no idea about the seizures. And neither does Matthew, it seems. If Dr. and Mrs. LeVine can be trusted, it’s only me, Walter, and Tabitha who know details. Being the only one in the car who’s aware that Lydia could transform at any second, could become that girl I saw on the sidewalk yesterday, leaves me incapable of capturing a full breath. As if the truth is like a hand clasped over my mouth.
Lydia should know. Matthew, who drives Lydia and her sisters so often, should know.
But I made my promise to Mrs. LeVine. While I have no scruples about borrowing Ms. Underhill’s cardigan to snatch a pastry, or sliding down the school banister in my swimming costume, breaking a promise is a line I won’t cross. What does a girl have, really, if her word cannot be trusted?
As Matthew steers us toward the Astor Street district, and as Lydia persists in drawing conversation out of him, my gaze stays on the choppy gray waters of Lake Michigan. The ache in my knuckles is dull despite the lashes Ms. Underhill inflicted today when my mouth got the best of me.
“What kind of lazy work is this, Miss Sail?” She had held up the mess of green fabric for the class to see. “Is this the bodice of a dress or a bird’s nest?”
Only dimwitted Mae Husboldt was rude enough to play along and laugh.
I took a measured breath, determined to behave in a way that would make Joyce proud. That wouldn’t make Lydia scold me afterward. “Yes, I believe I’ve made a mistake or two in my stitches.”
“A mistake or two? More like ten.” She had allowed a beat of silence in her abuse, as if anticipating Mae’s giggles. “Here you’ve sewn the right side together with the wrong side. You’ll have to take it all apart. Start over. There won’t be time for you to finish it for the fashion show, I’m afraid.”
This earned a reaction from the other girls—an exhale of horror.
She thrust the bodice back to me, and the haughty expression she wore made it seem as though she thought this might be a devastating blow to me. Like all my hopes were pinned on this dress being displayed in the Presley’s School for Girls Fashion Show, a long-standing tradition during the week of graduation. “Yes, Ms. Underhill.”
My meekness only seemed to spur her. “I wonder about your future, Miss Sail. Such a fine mind in there, and yet, what will become of you?”
“Well.” I pulled my seam ripper along the bodice, and the sound of severing threads filled the air. “I doubt I’ll be a seamstress.”