The nurse glanced at the window. “You start your workday early.”
Vivian nodded again. She slid one hand into her pocket, her fingers twisting the corner of Honor’s letter about Miss Ethel. She had read it first thing that morning. “I need to talk to my boss before my shift begins.”
Ethel Marie Barnes lived in a respectable house, the top two floors of which were let to tenants. Miss Ethel’s rooms, according to Honor’s letter, were on the top floor, and the dressmaker left for coffee and eggs at the automat every morning at six thirty before catching the streetcar to her shop.
Vivian eyed the elegant windows with their lace curtains and ivy-filled boxes, the quiet street with quiet workers heading out to find breakfast, the nanny just leaving the landlady’s apartments with two small children in tow. She ignored the hot anger in her chest as she waited for her employer to emerge, then followed her to the automat.
Miss Ethel got her food and coffee without looking around, pulling out a ladies’ magazine to read as she sat down. She didn’t get a chance to open it, though, and she jumped as Vivian took the seat across from her.
“Vivian!” she exclaimed, one hand on her heart and her mouth pinched even tighter than usual. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I think you’ll be all right,” Vivian said, pleased by the instant irritation that flared across Miss Ethel’s face at her casual, almost disrespectful tone. “I thought I’d join you for breakfast.”
Miss Ethel sniffed. “Whatever you have to tell me, it can wait until you and your sister arrive at the shop. This sort of behavior is highly inappropriate.”
“Well, that’s the thing. Florence isn’t going to be in to work today. She needs about a week off. And when she comes back, I’m going to expect a few changes.”
“This is the last straw.” Miss Ethel threw down her napkin, her cheeks splotchy with fury. “I have been more than patient with you. I have lightened your duties when any other employer would have simply fired you. Do you know how lucky you are to work in such a respectable establishment? Do you know how many girls would love totake your place, should I make it available? But you, you flaunt your wayward morals, you abuse my generosity. Well, I’ll not have it anymore.” Her voice was a low hiss—even in her anger, Miss Ethel was conscious of appearances, and she had no intention of drawing the attention of the other diners. “Either you and your sister will both be at work today—with your heads down, your mouths closed, and your sewing machines busy for your full shift—or you can find other places of employment. If anywhere else will have you.”
“All right then, have it your way.” Vivian shrugged and stood. She smiled in the face of Miss Ethel’s righteous fury. “Tell little Mathilde hello for me when you visit her on Sunday. Sounds like you found a nice, respectable family to take her in.” Vivian picked up her handbag and turned toward the door. “How lucky for you.”
“Vivian!”
Vivian turned back. Her stomach was knotted with apprehension at what she was doing, but none of her nerves showed on her face. “Yes?”
Miss Ethel’s face was pale except for those two red splotches, which had grown even brighter. Her fingers clenched around the edge of the table as she stood, but the tight grip couldn’t hide how her hands were trembling. “What did you say?”
Vivian smiled. “Mind if we sit down? I think our talk might not be finished after all.”
The servants at the Wilson house recognized her by now, or at least they recognized the box under her arm. Vivian didn’t have to state her business before they showed her in, the housekeeper calling a maid to escort “the dressmaker’s girl” upstairs.
“She wasn’t expecting you yet, but no matter. She said to send you up whenever you arrived, even if her visitors were still here.”
This time the maid didn’t show Vivian to the pretty ladies’ parlor; instead, she knocked timidly on a door further down the hall.
“Come in.”
Vivian glanced around curiously as the maid held the door open for her. She had a brief impression of an oppressive and masculine room, its walls lined with books, heavy curtains covering the windows, and an entire shelf of liquor flaunted out in the open. Then her eyes landed on Mrs. Wilson sitting behind the desk. A short, wiry man, his hat held politely at his side, was speaking to her with his back to Vivian.
“We’ll take care of the Baxter Street place tomorrow,” he was saying. “There won’t be any sign that she was ever there—”
“Ah, Miss Kelly. You’ve returned.” Hattie Wilson cut him off. Gesturing for Vivian to come in, she nodded a dismissal to the maid. “Anne, shut the door.”
Vivian caught her breath as the man by the desk turned toward her, and the sound of the door closing behind her echoed loudly through the now-silent room.
“Hello there, girlie,” Bruiser George said, a leer spreading across his face. Over his shoulder, Vivian could see Mrs. Wilson smiling faintly. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Vivian clenched the dress box with both hands to keep them from shaking, wanting to raise it in front of her like a shield. A wave of nausea left her cold and sweating with fear. She had wondered who George and his cronies were working for now that Willard Wilson was dead—the new boss who was threatening her and the Nightingale both. Looking at George’s posture in front of Mrs. Wilson’s desk—a spot that had clearly once belonged to her husband—she thought she had an answer.
Bruiser George took a step closer to her. “Now, let’s see. We’ve met one time in an alley, one time in a nightclub, and now here. Our acquaintance is getting downright respectable, wouldn’t you—”
“That’s enough, George,” Hattie Wilson said, her voice mild, though her eyes never left Vivian. “I think you’ve made our point.”
Vivian didn’t know where to look. She didn’t want to take her eyesoff Bruiser George, but she was starting to realize that he might not be the most dangerous person in the room.
“Yes, ma’am,” George said, his voice polite though the smile he gave Vivian was anything but. “You let me know if me’n the boys can do anything else.”
“And I’ll expect you to jump when I do.” Hattie Wilson’s voice wasn’t demanding; she even smiled as she said it, but the iron will behind the words was clear.
