Out of the corner of her eye, Vivian could see Roy stiffen and start forward. “A moment please, Mrs. Wilson,” he called out, and Vivian could practically hear him clenching his jaw as he spoke. “Just a moment of your time. It’s important.”
Hattie Wilson paused at the top of the stairs, one hand tightening on the bannister. For barely a second, her face lit with irritation. And then her features settled as if she had wiped them clean, a bland, polite, unfeeling mask. “I’ll be right with you, Mr. Carlton.” The expression was more than just a lack of distress. She looked as though she had no feelings at all, as if she were indeed the pretty, lifeless doll that she had appeared in the newspaper photographs.
Vivian held back a shudder, wondering what could teach a woman to bury herself so deep that she disappeared entirely.
“Wait in the sitting room,” Hattie Wilson said to her. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Vivian did as she was told, her mind racing. That interaction had been plain enough. Mags’s fellow Roy—Roy Carlton, Vivian thought, filing the name away—knew Hattie Wilson on more than friendly terms, either from before her marriage or during.
It could have been nothing more than wishful thinking on his part, love or lust from a distance that he felt free to act on with Wilson gone. Hattie, for her part, was clearly ready to be done with Roy. Or at least she didn’t want him coming by and starting gossip. But for some reason she hadn’t insisted on sending him away at that last moment.
Vivian didn’t have time to start guessing why. Whatever Roy had wanted to say, it hadn’t taken long, and Hattie followed her into the room only a minute later. She wasn’t bothering with her company face, not for a shopgirl, so her weariness was visible as she paused at the threshold, then sighed and yanked the door shut behind her.
“Thank you for waiting, Miss…”
“Kelly, ma’am. Vivian Kelly. And it was no trouble.”
“My housekeeper tells me you need to do additional fitting?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Vivian said, lifting the first day dress. “I’ll just check the shoulders and pin the length where you want it.”
Hattie sighed. “Very well.” She took the dress from Vivian and crossed to the mirror, dropping her wrapper to puddle on the floor behind her.
Vivian didn’t bother averting her eyes any more than Hattie tried to hide her silk undergarments and stockings while she shimmied the garment over her head. While she was working, bodies might as well have been dress forms. She retrieved a packet of pins from inside the box and knelt in front of the mirror.
“I assume you will finish them before you leave today?” Hattie asked as she settled into stillness. Only her fingers fluttered a little as she held them out from her body.
“I’m afraid I can’t be the one to sew them.” Vivian held up her bandaged hand in explanation. “But we’ll have them back to you as quick as can be.” She hesitated, keeping her eyes fixed on the pins as sheadded, “I know it’s not a situation that lends to waiting much. I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Mrs. Wilson.”
Hattie’s hands clenched for a moment, then relaxed, and she nodded. “Thank you.”
“Hope you don’t mind me saying so,” Vivian said. “But he seemed like quite the gentleman.” Vivian held her breath, keeping her eyes on the hem she was pinning. Plenty of women got chatty with their dressmakers, same as they would with a servant—as if not being part of the same social circle meant they would never have a chance to repeat the gossip to anyone. If she was lucky, Hattie Wilson would be that type.
Out of the corner of her eye, Vivian saw Hattie grow very still before she glanced down. “Did you ever meet him?”
“Oh no, not personally,” Vivian said quickly, eyes wide, still playing the part she had with the housekeeper. “I saw your pictures in the paper, though. The columns love to write about you.”
Mrs. Wilson made a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so bitter. “They did, that’s for certain. I’m sure they have plenty to say now, though I haven’t read any of it.”
“All real sad stuff, and real respectable. They didn’t say what happened, though, him going so young,” Vivian said. She held her breath, waiting to see what response her lie would provoke. For a moment, she thought Hattie wasn’t going to answer. Vivian didn’t dare look up.
“A heart ailment,” Hattie said at last, her voice cold. “This one’s fine.”
Vivian stood and helped her slide off the gown without disturbing the pins. “You must miss him terribly,” she said, folding the dress and setting it aside.
“I must,” Hattie agreed, her voice blank of any emotion as she turned back to the mirror.
Vivian didn’t press. She didn’t need to. Any mourning Hattie Wilson felt for her husband clearly was limited to social symbols only. What had caused the romance to fade so quickly? Or had she known, even when she married him, what sort of man he was?
And if she knew he was a bastard with a wandering eye, did that mean she also knew what he’d been up to that got him killed?
Vivian checked the fit on the second dress—it wouldn’t need alterations—in silence. When she was finishing the third and final gown, she decided it was safe to risk another comment.
“Will your sister need mourning dresses as well? Your housekeeper couldn’t say when she’d be back from school.”
She had thought bringing up someone other than Wilson would get Hattie talking, but she could tell instantly that she had misjudged. Hattie didn’t move, but every inch of her expression shut down as if she had slammed a door. And then an instant later, so quickly Vivian thought she might have imagined it, the stoniness was gone, replaced by indifference. “I can’t say,” Hattie said briskly. “Take this one off, please.”
“Girls change so much at school,” Vivian said agreeably as she eased the day dress over her customer’s head and bent down to retrieve the wrapper—silk, she could tell, even before she touched it—from where it lay on the floor. “Here you are, Mrs. Wilson. You just let me know about your sister. Meantime, we’ll get these back to you quick as can be.”
