Now, as she finally digs herself out from her stupor, her stomach rumbling in irate protest, she finds Dagmar standing in her doorway, the cook’s bulk filling the entire space.
“I’m fine.” Cora sits up, wiping her eyes. “Just tired.”
Dagmar grunts, skeptical. For some reason, the German woman’s disgusted expression is even more insulting than Alice’s cold castoff.
“Trust me,” Cora mutters. “I’ve been through worse.”
“Then you know nuttink goot iz going to come lying dere crying your eyes out,” Dagmar huffs.
Cora looks up. This is the longest sentence she’s ever heard the cook put together. In English, anyway.
“Get dressed,” Dagmar adds gruffly, “and nothing too fancy.” Her red nose wrinkles on the word. “You are not going to be recogneezed where we are going, but I will take no chances.”
Cora jumps up to sift through her wardrobe, just like a good soldier. Highly skilled now in doing as she’s told. How on earth did she ever convince herself she was an accomplice, an equal?
In minutes, she has changed into a plain shirtwaist, modest hat, and patterned skirt, with a sensibly sturdy but decidedly unstylish jacket to complete the understated look. Reemerging in the hall, Cora finds no signs of Alice or Béatrice. Dagmar, meanwhile, stands waiting at the door, her hair neatly combed, the lines of her reddened face softened with powder. She takes one of the two parasols she’s holding and hands it to Cora, then pulls a thick-knit toque onto her head.
“Come on then,” she grunts. “Ale will not drink itself.”
They move briskly together down the stairwell, outside into the early evening, and onto the avenue, where Dagmar hails a hansom cab. Cora has no idea where they’re going and doesn’t ask.
Dagmar is a woman of very few words, which usually is off-putting to Cora, but today there’s an odd comfort, allegiance even, in her silence.
It’s almost like they’re in mourning together.
When the carriage turns off Fifth Avenue and into the mess of the Bowery, though, curiosity finally gets the better of her.
“Where are we going?” Cora asks.
Dagmar lifts a lazy finger to the window, though offers nothing more.
“And why, pray tell, are we here?”
“If you cannot get rid of sorrows for goot?” Dagmar shrugs. “Drown zem for a while.”
Cora considers this, hardly game to argue with that airtight logic.
They pull onto a narrow road, past tanneries, shoddy storefronts, tenements with windows scrubbed opaque with dirt. The streets are crowded down here, businessmen heading home after a long day, horses and carriages hitched on both sides, little urchins peddling papers on the corners, wild hogs scampering across the roads. The carriage groans to a halt in front of a nondescript saloon, a flapping wooden sign that simply reads Beer.
“We will have to go in zee back,” Dagmar explains.
Cora swallows, reconsidering the sign. “We’re going in here?”
“In zee back,” Dagmar says again, impatiently. “Women’s entrance.”
Cora’s suddenly feeling... nervous? Unprepared? The most she’s ever had by way of spirits is the odd glass of wine or champagne here and there, and always in moderation (as per Alice’s instructions). Brandy too, once, that Maeve slipped her while they were on the road.
“I’ve never had beer,” she admits.
Dagmar’s already halfway out of the carriage, her hat pulled low, parasol extended. “First time for everyzing. Now, come on. Beers are only a cent 'til six.”
Cora follows the cook into a dingy alley, around to a door marked Ladies Entrance. The tight, dusty corridor eventually gives way to a cramped saloon, dimly lit, well kept, andpacked, with a long oak bar along the opposite wall. Most of the nearby tables are filled with female patrons clustered together chatting or huddled around a card game, half-drunk pints of golden liquid by their sides. The front of the saloon is all men. Workmen in uniforms, soot-stained hands clutching their glasses alongside businessmen in suits and loosened neckties.
Cora feels a wave of shame. An imposter, that’s what she is, among all these honest folks putting in their time to eke out a weekly paycheck. People like her old cast members, Dinah and Maeve. Her father too. Meanwhile, here she is, crying about getting married to a millionaire?
Dagmar claims two seats at a table and plunks Cora down into one of the empty chairs.
“Give us four pints, love,” she orders, once a waitress appears. “We need to catch up with zee others.”
