“Well, it’s lucky for you that I can. Barbara pays me handsomely to do so. Her patronage is enough to keep both of us in satin and pearls. Hopefully, after tonight, I’ll earn more commissions from some of her friends as well.”
“Are there still parties, then? Even with the murders? Miss Mabel said she’d been losing business.”
“There have been fewer, for certain.” She brushes her hair back to tighten the screw on her earring, showing the delicate, fey curve ofher ear. “I used to have private performances on the books every week. Events have diminished, which is why I’m grateful for Barbara.”
The flare of jealousy rises again, remembering how enraptured Barbara was by Kate’s performance at Miss Mabel’s. The way they embraced. Barbara was bewitching. Far more attractive than I. Still, I compose my features and smile. “Mrs. Kincaid seems very fond of you.”
“We’re old friends. We met through Lucrezia. Barbara is from an old Huguenot family—they’ve been here for over a century. And Mr. Kincaid is very influential. Their house is next to the Gibbes mansion.”
I’ve never heard of the Kincaids, so he can’t bethatinfluential, despite his prestigious address. Mother practically kept diaries about the comings and goings of the planter aristocracy. The Kincaids are new money, most likely. And as a French Catholic, Mother and Huguenot Barbara wouldn’t have frequented the same circles.
Kate takes a silk cape from the hat tree and fastens it around her shoulders. “I’ll return by morning, Lil. Keep a lantern lit in the parlor. Don’t answer the door for anyone.”
“I won’t.”
I watch her leave through the windows, the moonlight falling over her like poured milk. Though I recognize her need to work and earn a living, I don’t want her to go. Apart from my jealousy over Barbara, I worry about her safety. There have been three murders to date—enough to recognize a disturbing pattern. All three women were redheads. Is it a mere coincidence, or a purposeful choice on the part of the killer?
Sally. Denise. Marjorie.
Who will be next?
It’s harrowing to assume there will be more murders, but until the culprit is captured, it’s as likely a scenario as not. I return to the piano to distract myself and peck out a Bach Invention I memorized in my youth, finding solace in its steady, mathematical precision. But the music does little to lift my worries.
I keep imagining Kate in some silk-shrouded boudoir with Barbara Kincaid, kissing her, caressing her, loosening the pins from Barbara’sblack hair. Despite Kate’s assurances, I wonder whether she might have a price. And even if she doesn’t sell her body, perhaps she shares herself with Barbara all the same. There’s still so much I don’t know about Kate. She’s been circumspect. Secretive.
As the night wears on, my curiosity gets the best of me. I go to Kate’s room. I slept here only one night, after our outing to Miss Mabel’s, but the room welcomes me with a low, crackling fire. The bed is turned down, as if in invitation. I cross to Kate’s bureau and slide open the top drawer. It’s filled with underthings—chemises, corsets, and men’s and women’s garments alike. The next drawer contains her shirts, the earthy, sweet scent of lavender and chamomile wafting up from the folded cambric.
The rest of the drawers contain only clothing, until I get to the bottom. I find letters nestled there, tied with a faded ribbon. I lift them out. They’re addressed to Kate, from someone whose name I don’t recognize—a Dr. Horatio Sutherland. Was he her father? She mentioned he was a doctor. I skim through the letters. There’s nothing of interest, only a fatherly concern over Kate’s health and well-being, until I get to the final letter, dated March 7, 1841. The doctor’s penmanship is markedly different in this letter—an untidy, barely legible scrawl compared to the neat hand in the others.
Dearest Katherine,
I have suffered an apoplectic fit, which has left me greatly impaired. Given my age, there will surely be more to follow. This may be the last time I am able to write to you. Please take this humble offering as an apology for all the misfortune you have endured on my account. It comforts my heart to know you’ve found happiness, but once I am gone, he will try to find you, Kate. I know it. He is a man obsessed. Driven by some inner demon. I can no longer control him or make him see reason. You are safest to remain as you are now, and where you are. Donot attempt to come to me. I have burned all your letters, though it pained me to do so. Let this be our farewell. Be wary. Be vigilant.
Your loving father,
H. Sutherland
I refold the letter and place it at the bottom of the stack, where I found it, retying the ribbon.
You are safest to remain as you are now.
Did Dr. Sutherland know Kate’s secret? That she was living as a man, with Lucrezia? The letter certainly hints at it. And who was he frightened of, on her behalf?
He is a man obsessed. Driven by some inner demon. I can no longer control him or make him see reason.
A chill shivers through me. Someone from Kate’s past wished her harm. An old beau? An old enemy?
I replace the letters in the drawer and slide my hand deeper, toward the back. I gasp as something sharp pierces my finger. I withdraw my hand and suck on the bead of blood forming on my fingertip, then slide the drawer open more fully so I can see what’s cut me. It’s a picture frame, its edges sharply figured with brass scrollwork. I draw it out to study the daguerreotype within. I recognize Kate immediately, dressed in a frock coat and breeches, though she’s much younger in the photograph. Her dark hair is hidden beneath a powdered wig, but that same sly smile slants across her lips as she leans over a woman reclining on a couch. It’s Barbara Kincaid, her full lips open in a seductive pout, her hand wound around Kate’s neck as if pulling her in for a kiss.
The caption below the daguerreotype reads: Barbara Ardouin as Countess Almaviva with Katherine O’Malley as Cherubino.The Marriage of Figaro, Dock Street Theatre, 1845.
I want to dash the framed photograph against the wall. Or burn it. Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed to study it. So, Kate lied to me. Her history with Barbara is much more complex than she let on.Lucrezia must have been introduced to Barbara through the theater, not through the planter aristocracy. She and Lucrezia both married above their station, that much is apparent. And between them, there was a connecting thread. Kate. I consider the photograph again. Yes, Countess Almaviva and Cherubino were not-so-secret lovers in Mozart’s opera, and the photograph was obviously a staged promotional image for the theater, but the attraction between them is palpable. I witnessed their affection for one another firsthand, at Miss Mabel’s. Did Barbara and Kate begin an affair after Lucrezia’s passing? Are they carrying on still, beneath her husband’s nose? Or perhaps the three of them are embroiled in an open affair. Though scandalous, such things happen.
It’s enough to set my jealousy, and my curiosity, aflame. I place the photograph back inside the bureau drawer, wiping my hands on my skirt, and make a decision. It may prove to be foolhardy, but all the same, by the time the clock chimes ten, I’m dressed in the periwinkle gown I wore to my library dinner with Kate, my hair covered by the auburn wig. Barbara Kincaid is about to host an uninvited guest.
The house is garishly lit and filled with people from my former life, just as I worried it would be. Hidden behind the spiky leaves of a dwarf palmetto, I can hear scraps of their conversation drifting down from the upper piazza. The clink of glassware. A woman’s high, distinctive laughter rings out over the gardens. Georgina McClintock, prima donna of the chivalry. I quell my nervousness and wait in the shadows for the right opportunity to make my entrance. Finally, a maid exits the side door, leaving it open behind her. I wait until she makes her way to the kitchen house, then rush across the lawn, face concealed by my cloak. Once inside, it’s easy enough to pretend I belong here. I stash my cloak in a corner of the hall, then follow the sound of laughter and music up the servant stairs until I reach the third floor, where the ballroom awaits.
The Kincaid mansion drips with newfound wealth. Fine damask covers the furniture—likely from China—and with the array of other items from the Orient, I wonder whether Mr. Kincaid is an import merchant like Papa. Gorgeous, nearly translucent porcelain decorates the sideboards, and beneath my feet, Turkish rugs soften my step as I approach the ballroom. I pause before entering and glance at my reflection in a nearby mirror. My color is high, and I’ve gone through quite an adventure to get here. Though my leg protested, I walked to Mount Pleasant, in my gown, then took the steam ferry across the river. At this time of night, I was one of few passengers, but my apprehension only grew as the steamer churned the Cooper, carrying me back to the city that wants me dead.
