She hadn’t let herself realize, until that moment, that she’d have to enter Buchanan’s study again. But as soon as she was in the doorway, the memory of that day hit her like a punch to the gut. The feel of blood slipping against her hands as she turned him over. His blank eyes staring past her, his mouth fallen open as though he were just about to speak.
Bea was behind her, holding the door open and watching down the hall to make sure no one was coming. Vivian shuddered, taking a step back, scrubbing her hands against her dress as though she needed to clean them of blood once more. “I can’t,” she whispered.
“You can,” Bea said mercilessly. “You have to. Or you have to give up and get out.”
“Bea,” Vivian whimpered. “This is where he died.”
“You have to,” Bea said again. But her hands were gentle as she placed one between Vivian’s shoulder blades and gave her a push. “A memory can’t hurt you.”
Vivian wasn’t so sure about that. But she forced her feet to carry her forward anyway. And then she stopped in the middle of the room, not sure where to begin.
“His papers are over here,” Bea said, half closing the door behind them and crossing to the cabinet behind the desk. “I looked earlier, while everyone else was getting Mrs. Buchanan and her son out the door. I didn’t see anything about people who worked for them, but I didn’t have much time to look then. I can help you go through them now.”
Vivian had to swallow back the knot in her throat. “I don’t deserve you.”
“No, you don’t,” Bea agreed, her smile strained. “I’m as grand as they come. Now, stop wasting time. You take the drawers on the right.”
They worked in silence. The half-closed door meant no one would see them kneeling behind the desk if they were walking down the hall, but it also let them hear if anyone was coming. Luckily, there was silence.
The drawers Vivian was going through contained mostly letters, notes about business or missives from friends, a note from Corny Rokesby that had apparently accompanied a bottle of gin. Seeing that made the lump come back into Vivian’s throat. What must that gift have meant to Buchanan, who had lost both his own sons, if he had kept the note?
But there was nothing about servants, not letters of reference or notes checking previous employment. Nothing.
“Any luck on your end?” Vivian whispered.
Bea shook her head. “Not yet,” she whispered back. “But I’ve still got some more to go through. Just give me a minute.”
Vivian swallowed. Every minute felt precious, and she didn’t want to give up any of them. But she nodded anyway; there was nothing else to do. She was about to put her whole stack of papers back in their drawer when the letters at the bottom of the pile caught her eye. They were clearly older than the others, the ink faded in some spots, the paper torn in others. She pulled one out, curious. When she unfolded it, a playbill for a vaudeville show tumbled into her lap.
My Handsome Huxley,the letter began,what fun we had last night.And it went on from there in a way that made Vivian’s cheeks grow hot. It was signedM., who will always be Your Diamond. She glanced at the playbill, which declared that the show would featureThe Magnificent Margaret Diamond,with a sketch of a woman in a costume even skimpier than the one that had let Vivian escape from the lodge ball.
She glanced at the date on the letter, a suspicion growing in the back of her mind. She flipped through the rest of the love letters, all fromM.,until she found what she was looking for.
Huxley my darling, why won’t you write back? I know I promised never to call at your house, but I’m growing worried. The doctor says he suspects twins…
Vivian sat back on her heels. She would never have suspected that Honor’s mother had been a vaudeville actress.
In fact, she’d never suspected much of anything when it came to Honor’s mother. Honor had said her mother caught influenza and never recovered, and Vivian had assumed that meant she was dead. But what if she wasn’t?
What if she was still alive and in Brooklyn? If anyone would know how Honor really felt about her father, whether she could have been the one to end his life, it would be her mother. Wouldn’t it?
Vivian flipped through the letters, looking for the most recent one. She might not be able to find the maid. But if she could find an address for Honor’s mother, maybe she could get something like an answer. Maybe she could find out, one way or another, if Hattie and Levinsky and probably Leo too were right. Maybe—
Her hands shook as she pulled out the most recent letter.
Huxley, you bastard. You sweet-talking, snake oil bastard. You’re never going to write, are you?
This one had an address. But it was dated more than twenty years ago.
Apparently, Huxley Buchanan had cared about his onetime loverenough to keep her letters. But he hadn’t cared enough to reach out again, even after he brought his daughter back into his life.
Or maybe she really was dead. There was no way to know without asking Honor. And even if Vivian could bring herself to do that, could she trust anything Honor told her?
“What in God’s name are you doing in here?”
Vivian’s helpless rage drew to a sharp point of panic as she spun toward the door, where the housekeeper stood, one hand on the door, the other trembling where it held a poker in front of her. She stared at Vivian with wide eyes. “What do you think you—Dear God.” She broke off, taking a step back. “You’re the girl who—You can’t be here! How did you get in this room? How did you get in thishouse?”
Vivian shoved the letter into her pocket without thinking, just in case she needed both hands free. “I walked right in,” she said recklessly, her breath coming too fast.
