“It has been a difficult time for her, certainly,” the housekeeper said, resuming her climb while Vivian hurried to keep up. “I trust you will be quiet and respectful, and not pry into Mrs. Wilson’s personal business.”
“Wouldn’t dream of prying,” Vivian said, eyes wide as she was ushered into an upstairs parlor. She drew as much bubbly excitement into her voice as she could manage as she exclaimed, “Lord almighty, I hope the will don’t say she has to move out in a hurry. I wouldn’t ever want to leave here.”
The room was a stark contrast to the chill grandeur of the rest of the house. Two of the four walls were lined with bookshelves, and one was entirely made up of windows overlooking the bright leaves of Central Park. In front of one window, a writing desk was set to catch the best light, and the rest of the room was furnished with deep sofas and chairs. Around the windows, velvet curtains dyed a stunning sky blue puddled to the floor. It was a room made for leisure and luxury, and Vivian stared at it with hungry awe.
The housekeeper smiled at her admiration. “Fortunately, Mrs. Wilson inherits the house outright after the death of her husband and neednot move at all—a great comfort to her in such a terrible time, you can be sure.” Crossing the room, the housekeeper straightened a full-length mirror that stood in one corner, then pulled out a handkerchief to rub a spot that smudged its surface. “This room was furnished specifically for her and Miss Myrtle.”
“That’s her sister, right?” Vivian played the role of a gossip column–loving shopgirl, though her admiration of the sitting room was genuine. “I read in the paper that she’ll be coming back to keep her sister company.” She glanced over just in time to catch the housekeeper’s reflection in the mirror and was surprised to see the woman frown—not at her, but as if she were in the middle of an unpleasant thought.
A moment later, though, the expression was smoothed away and the housekeeper turned back to her. “Yes. Miss Myrtle will be returning from school shortly.”
“I imagine she’ll be needing a dress or two as well, then,” said Vivian, setting the box down on one of the sofas and carefully unwrapping its contents. “Which we’ll be happy to do. I’ll need to come back a second time, anyway, once the final alterations are done.”
The housekeeper nodded. “I will let Mrs. Wilson know you are here. And don’t touch anything while you wait,” she added before departing, her footfalls muffled instantly in the plush hallway carpeting.
Vivian’s fingers itched to explore, to examine every book and crystal knickknack and priceless piece of art. But it wasn’t worth the risk. She finished laying out the dresses and waited, standing with her hands clasped and toes tapping.
After five minutes, she decided it wouldn’t do any harm to simply walk around the room. The paintings that adorned the walls were beautiful, even if she didn’t know a thing about who painted them or what they showed. She let her gaze linger over the shelves of books—she wasn’t much of a reader, but she thought that given a chance she could enjoy the activity.
After she had explored the entire room with her eyes and feet—andthe clock on the writing desk said twenty more minutes had passed—Vivian gave up and settled into the comfortable sofa. Everything in the room was decorated with perfect taste, but there were no personal touches anywhere. Even the desk was pristine, with every scrap of paper tucked away, and only a small crystal clock, a case for a fountain pen, and a single book left out.
Standing and stepping closer, Vivian discovered that the book was actually an album, open to the image of a family picnic. There were three people in it—a woman, a man, and a girl—captured lounging in the sun. The woman was just looking up from her book to glance at the other two. Even though her hat shaded most of her face, Vivian recognized Hattie Wilson from the newspapers. Next to her sat the girl, scowling at the camera, and there was enough of a resemblance between them that Vivian guessed she was the younger sister, Myrtle. On Myrtle’s other side was Willard Wilson, one arm slung over his new sister’s shoulder, gazing at his wife and laughing.
Vivian stared at the three figures. The young bride and the grumpy girl felt easy enough to label and tuck away. But the Wilson the photo captured seemed so different from the man she had been expecting—the bootlegger, the bastard, the one involved in something shady—that she stared at his face for a long time.
The tinkling chime of the desk clock made her jump guiltily, as if someone might have come in and found her prying. Glancing down, she saw that it was after one o’clock. Thirty minutes had passed, and there was still no sign of Mrs. Wilson.
Hoping to find a servant who could tell her how much longer she’d be waiting, Vivian peered out the door. The house was oppressively silent, but after a moment she heard faint voices from downstairs.
She took a few steps toward the sound, then froze at the top of the staircase, not sure what to do, as the voices spiked in anger and two people who were definitely not servants appeared.
The first person who stalked into view was a woman in a long silk robe, masses of glistening brown hair tumbled around her shoulders.The man following her snapped a sharp “Don’t!” as he grabbed her arm, pulling her back around to face him.
They glared at each other, too preoccupied to look around the hall, and in that moment Vivian was able to see their faces clearly. She recognized Hattie Wilson, the china-doll prettiness of her photos more striking in person. And to her surprise—surprise that kept her frozen in place, even though she knew she would catch hell if they saw her—she recognized the man as well. It was Roy, whom she had last seen the night Willard Wilson was murdered.
“My husband just died, you idiot, you cannot be here,” Hattie Wilson hissed as she pushed out of Roy’s arms. “How do you think it’s going to look?”
“My God, you can be such a hypocrite,” Roy said, grabbing her arm once more. Both of them spoke in angry, urgent whispers that barely carried up the stairs to where Vivian strained to hear. “Anyone can guess you’re relieved that he’s gone.”
“My God, you can be such an idiot,” Hattie countered, starting to sound more exhausted than angry. “You cannot say things like that where someone might overhear.”
“Who’s going to hear?” Roy pulled her into his arms once more, his voice dropping as he brushed the hair out of her face. “We’re in your house.”
“I told you not to touch me,” Hattie snapped, shaking off his embrace. “I have a husband to bury, and my sister is coming home, and—”
“And you need someone to take care of you,” Roy said, smiling his Coca-Cola ad smile as he reached for her again. “Let me take care of you, Hattie.”
“And you still don’t understand, Roy. I can take care of myself just fine. In fact—”
Hattie had started to turn away from him as she spoke. Vivian whirled away from the couple, so quickly she almost lost her balance, and peered down one of the upstairs hallways as if she were lookingfor something, praying they wouldn’t guess she had been able to hear them.
“Are you the dressmaker?”
Hattie’s voice carried much more clearly than her whispers had, and Vivian turned around, surprised to find the young widow already walking toward the staircase and leaving Roy behind. If she hadn’t been watching them, Vivian would have never guessed they had been arguing, or that Hattie had been in his arms mere moments before.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, eyes fixed on Hattie. She could feel Roy watching her, but he had only ever seen her dolled up and in the dim light of the Nightingale. Hopefully he wouldn’t recognize the girl from the dance hall as the dressmaker visiting the Fifth Avenue mansion. “I wasn’t sure if you were still able to see me today, so I was looking for someone—”
“I’m ready now,” Hattie said. “Mr. Carlton, you can show yourself out.” Already halfway up the stairs, she barely even bothered to look over her shoulder as she said it.
