Taking the cue, Cora lowers her head, eyes closed in silent prayer of her own. A murmur rises among the more cheerful parishioners, signaling a new and notable arrival.
Alice averts her eyes, only glancingly seeing Ward glidepast, his arm on loan to a stately older woman dressed in deep cranberry.
“There she is,” Cora whispers breathlessly. “TheMrs. Astor.”
Her sister-in-law might take issue with that declaration, Alice thinks, but she can’t quite get the quip out, even to whisper it. Her breath is growing tight.
As the service begins, Alice feels her heart pounding forcefully within her. She can barely hear the words of the reverend leading them in prayer, through the readings.
It takes her a moment to realize everyone is standing for the first hymn. Cora’s voice rises with “The Son of God Goes Forth to War.” It is a triumphant, restoring sound.
Alice could swear it is her mother who is now restored, standing beside her, peering down at her daughter with a smile. Mother always loved the singing best, but Alice finds she cannot bear it, the sound of these hymns, let alone force a tune through her own dry throat.
Her eyes spill over in a flash too quick for her to possibly quell.
With a gasp, she lurches for the end of the pew.
From above, Christ and all his saints watch her flee for the exit, the safety of the sidewalk—and they’re not the only ones. All of New York society watches her run from her mother’s ghost out of Grace Church, tears streaming down her foolish cheeks.
Cora finds her out in the cold a moment later, shivering, holding both of their cloaks. “What happened back there? What’s the matter?”
“This was a mistake,” Alice sputters in a whisper, barely clinging to her accent. She snatches her cloak from Cora,then starts quickly away, up north. They won’t wait for Ward; they’ll walk.
Cora struggles to keep up. “But it was your idea! I don’t understand.”
“I thought it would help secure our respectability, to become a regular part of the congregation. I didn’t calculate...” She shakes her head, willing her breath to steady again.
To her credit, Cora has learned not to press, only walks quietly beside her for a good half mile, a silent sentinel, both of them listening to the cacophony of sounds filtering out of the buildings around them, families spending the day of rest in their own ways from city block to city block.
“That was your church, wasn’t it?” Cora finally ventures. “When you were a child.”
Alice stops and fixes her with a sharp glare.
It doesn’t dissuade the girl from placing a light hand on her shoulder before they continue walking.
A headache has set in by the time they reach their own corner, but Alice has mulled a solution to this small debacle along the way. She’ll write to Mrs. Ames, apologize that their hasty departure prevented a proper hello, explain that they were still overwhelmed by the news of her cousin’s death. It was all too fresh for the both of them. There. Done and settled. Now she can go inside and regain her equilibrium.
Alice stops walking. And stares.
Cora presses a hand to her arm. “The reporter. The nuisance.”
Nuisance, indeed. Cora doesn’t know the half of it.
The young reporter, now dressed in thick tweed and a derby hat, lounges against the banister of their stoop likehe’s waiting for a trolley. His smile rises when he sees Alice accompanied by Cora, one eyebrow rising inquisitively.
“The very same,” Alice mutters. “You go on inside while I speak to him.”
He tips his hat to the two of them as they approach. “Happy Sunday.”
“And to you,” Alice says with stiff formality, her accent thickly, almost forbiddingly Germanic. “Miss Ritter, my dear—”
“Miss Ritter, is it?” He steps forward, eyes sharpening on the younger woman’s face. He pockets the pencil to extend a hand. “Cal Archer.New York Herald.”
“TheHerald!” Cora exclaims. “We read that every day.”
“Do you really?” A slow grin creeps across Cal’s face as his eyes slide to Alice’s.
“I do believe I’ve seen your byline,” she goes on, continuing to ignore Alice’s express orders. Small consolation, but at least she’s maintaining her false accent. “Why, yes, I enjoyed your story about France’s military ventures in Tonkin.”
