Then Cora remembers that the con will have ended well before any travel ensues. Arabella will be penniless, same as Harry Peyton and the rest of them.
She supposes that’s some consolation. That they’ll be tossed out onto the streets together.
“Cora?” Arabella leans forward.
“Apologies.” Cora sobers, passing the letter back to Arabella.“Merely overwhelmed with joy myself, is all. My cousin is clearly very much in love. I will be honored to stand by both of your sides on your wedding day. And we shall be family!”
Not her finest nor most eloquent acting, and it’s high time to flee, else she might say something she regrets.
Abruptly, she swipes at imaginary dampness on her forehead. “Do forgive me, dear friend, but I believe the oysters from lunch may not be agreeing with me.”
Before Cora can fully take her leave, however, she swears she hears her name being called.
Not by Arabella. Down Fourteenth Street.
She turns and spies a dowdy woman dressed all in black, staring at her in disbelief outside of Tony Pastor’s new theater.
Oh. God.
Cora glances at Arabella. But the girl is still lost in her own world, consumed in reading and rereading Alice’s/Wilhelm’s letter.
Cora looks back at Maeve with terrified eyes and mouths a simple,Not now.Please.
Her panicked message must register, because her former coworker nods, dipping her chin, and slips back inside the theater.
A hand wraps around hers. Cora nearly jumps.
“You do look quite pale, Cora,” Arabella says, squeezing her hand, sniffling again. “You should get home, retire some, rest. Thank you for being such a good friend. I just... needed a trustworthy ear. And to know that I have your blessing.”
Cora pastes on a smile that truly churns her stomach. “As we say in my homeland, ‘the greenest of blessings.’”
And then, before she grows to fully hate herself, Cora bids her mark adieu.
She heads east on Fourteenth Street until she knows Arabella is well out of sight. Then she doubles back through the alley and into Pastor’s.
“Still can’t believe my eyes,” Maeve says, looking Cora up and down after fully expressing her rightful shock and relief. “Not only alive, but doing quite well, it seems.”
The two of them settled down for tea after all, just around the corner from the lobby of the theater. Hardly a soul is in here right now, which is why Cora agreed to a cup in the first place. Leora’s is a modest tea shop, with a handful of white-cloth tables, a checkerboard tiled floor, and a frayed cushioned bench beside a smudged window overlooking Third Avenue. A world away from Mailliard’s, and a place she is sure that neither Arabella Ames nor any of Alice’s other targets would ever frequent.
“So good to see you, love.” Maeve’s tired eyes water. “Really have been worried sick, thinking the worst had befallen—”
“I’ve been well, Maeve, though truly regretful I didn’t have the chance to say goodbye,” Cora says sheepishly, eager to change the subject. “Though enough about me. Tell me about the troupe, allyourlatest adventures. How long is this latest run?”
“Two whole weeks. Prospero has been boasting about it since we left Boston.Tony Pastor’s new theater,” Maeve says, with mock stage gravity, “quite the coup.” She slumps. “Up to Rochester after that, pitching a tent at the state fair. I get a chill just thinking about it. Anyways, no sense in worrying about that now. It’ll be nice to stay in one place for a while. It’s done near worn me out, this life, I’ve gotta admit.”
“Indeed.” Cora makes a mental note to avoid Union Square for the next couple weeks, before their ultimate play on the first of April. If Prospero himself were to spot her, no amount of silent entreaties would keep that showman from talking.
“Been really hard, you know,” Maeve says softly, “since you disappeared.”
Cora forces a laugh. “Oh, don’t flatter me, Maeve. I was a backstage apprentice, nothing more. You certainly didn’t need me then, and you don’t need me now.”
“It’s different these days. Not getting any younger.” Maeve gives her a rueful smile.
Buried memories of Prospero materialize, him snapping at the older woman, calling her a hag, ugly, washed up.
Why does she stay?
Only a few months ago, Cora might have instinctively blamed Maeve herself, dismissed her as a glutton for punishment.
