Last call at the nightin.., p.21
Last Call at the Nightingale, page 21
“They’re probably for Miss Crawford,” someone called from inside, and a flustered-looking housekeeper bustled up. “She’s in the gold sitting room right now, run up and tell her the delivery’s here.”
As the maid hurried off, the housekeeper smiled, and the genuine kindness of her expression was so surprising after the coldness of the Wilsons’ staff that it shook Vivian out of her distraction. “Sorry, lovey, we’re all a mess today. The mister and missus have a party tonight, which is probably why Miss Margaret ordered a new frock. You can leave your coat and bag down here, and I’ll show you up.”
Vivian followed the housekeeper upstairs, gaping at the beauty and wealth on display all around her once they left the servants’ domain. Paintings covered the walls, every frame gilded, while old books and older china crowded every shelf. Vases made of actual crystal overflowed with flowers and ferns at regular intervals along the halls. Vivian, after a quick glance to make sure the housekeeper wasn’t looking, couldn’t help burying her nose in a tumble of roses and breathing deeply. It was the most extravagant and beautiful place any of her deliveries had yet taken her.
“Miss Margaret?” The housekeeper stuck her head around an open door; from the glimpse of gleaming upholstery and knickknacks that Vivian caught, the gold sitting room was well named. “The dressmaker is here with your new gown for tonight.”
A perky voice answered from out of sight, the words muffled, and the housekeeper gestured Vivian inside. “Be sure to return to the servants’ entrance when you leave, young lady, rather than using the front door.” She smiled again to take the sting out of her words. Catching sight of something over Vivian’s shoulder, she called out, “Sarah, the Wedgewood vases need to be put away tonight, remember how many were broken during the last party!” before hurrying off.
Vivian, bolstered by the friendliness, was smiling as she entered. And then both her smile and her feet froze as she stared at a familiar face.
“Good God, what are you doing here?” Mags demanded, looking equally shocked.
She was dressed in a stylish, demure afternoon dress and didn’t have a bit of makeup on, the curly hair that was tucked into a false bob at night now braided and drawn over one shoulder. Lounging in the corner of a sofa with a book in her lap, she looked far younger than she ever did at the Nightingale—seventeen years old, if that, Vivian thought, unable to stop herself from staring.
Mags stared back, both of them silently sizing the other up and trying to decide how to behave. In a jazz club, they could be equals. But here, as Margaret Crawford, society darling and heiress to a clearly not-so-small fortune, and Vivian Kelly, working-class delivery girl, neither of them knew what to do.
Vivian recovered first. She had done enough deliveries to know the script. “Miss Crawford. Miss Ethel sends her compliments. Do you want to see the gowns or try them on?”
Clearly Mags didn’t know her half of the expected exchange, though, because she stayed frozen. “I didn’t know you worked for a dressmaker,” she said, hesitating.
Vivian winced, wondering how she would look Mags in the eyes the next time they came face-to-face in the Nightingale. “Yes, miss. I usually do the sewing, but it’s deliveries for me today.” She began opening the box to lay out the dress inside, a flouncy green silk number that her fingers itched to stroke. “Should I call a maid to help you with trying them on?”
Mags tossed her book aside and swung her legs around abruptly. “God, no, never mind the dresses, I tried them on when they were fitted. Remind me of your name—Vivian, right?”
“Yes, Miss Crawford.”
The girl hesitated again, then shook her head, suddenly making up her mind. “Mags,” she said firmly, then laughed. “What a hoot this is. Worlds crashing into each other. Thank God Mother had one of her heads today or she’d have seen something was up for sure!” Taking in Vivian’s stiff posture, she gestured toward the other end of the sofa. “Sit down, why don’t you? This really is too funny.”
Bounding up, looking even younger, she stuck her head out the door and called loudly, “Anyone around? Oh, Charlie, there you are. Be a pal and bring two soda waters, will you? No,” she laughed. “You don’t need to mix anything in, there’ll be plenty of that at the party tonight. Unless you want some hooch?” she asked, glancing behind her. Vivian, not sure what was happening, shook her head. Mags turned back to the hall. “Just the soda waters!”
Turning back, she grinned at Vivian before flinging herself across the sofa once more. “Sit down, will you? I’ll get a crick in my neck if I have to look at you like that.”
Vivian hesitated, then perched on the edge of the sofa.
“This really is too funny,” Mags said again, looking more like she meant it this time. “And too perfect. I’m sure you hear absolutely everything when you visit places like this, and I love a good goss. Who else buys from you?”
The entry of Charlie with the soda waters saved Vivian from answering immediately. While he popped the tops off two bottles and handed one to Mags—he hesitated, his confusion clear, before handing the second to Vivian—her mind worked rapidly. Why shouldn’t she sit and talk for a few minutes, after all? Mags clearly lived in the Wilsons’ social circle, and who knew what she might be able to reveal about them? Vivian took a quick swig of her soda water and coughed as the bubbles went up her nose. If Mags wanted to gossip—well, all right then. That sounded like a grand idea.
“I only just started doing deliveries. Can’t sew with my hand like this,” she said, gesturing to the bandage. Leaning forward and lowering her voice—Mags leaned forward too—she added, “But I had to deliver mourning clothes today.”
“Ohh, who for?” Mags whispered.
“A Mrs. Wilson?” Vivian took another drink, watching Mags over the edge of the bottle. “Do you know her?”
“Hattie? God, what is that house like?” Mags’s eyes were wide as she sipped her own drink. “I’ve never been inside, but I’ve heard it’s the coldest place you can imagine. That’s what she gets, I guess, for marrying him.”
“Mr. Wilson?” Vivian asked, mirroring Mags’s posture and widening her own eyes to encourage the girl to keep going.
“He seemed like a peach before the wedding, and everyone thought they were just the bee’s knees together, you know,” Mags said eagerly. “Hattie’s a bit older than me, but I watched the whole thing happen, though I’m not strictly out yet. Hell of a cautionary tale. Just a few months after the wedding, suddenly she and Willard were never seen together. And I mean never.”
“Any idea why?” Vivian thought of Pretty Jimmy’s hints that Wilson had an eye for Mags.
“Well, of course everyone thought he had an affair or something when he was courting her, and she found out after the wedding.” Mags dropped her voice even lower. “I never heard that he was seen with anyone, though he could get awful friendly. I even thought he might have been trying to make a pass at me once or twice, at one of Mother and Dad’s parties. Don’t know what he was thinking, old fella like him.” She rolled her eyes to show just how ancient a man in his thirties was. “Even if he did have an affair, it was too late to do anything about it. Hattie’s not the type to risk her position with something as ugly as a divorce.”
“She seemed very proper,” Vivian agreed, though she wasn’t sure that was actually true. Mrs. Wilson had seemed careful and calculating and polite, but there had been an edge of ruthlessness there. “Her sister was another story, of course.”
“Myrtle? You met her?” Mags’s voice rose, then dropped again as she glanced at the door. “What did you think of her?”
“Wild. And unhappy,” Vivian said honestly.
The girl nodded, her curiosity plain. “No one’s ever seen much of her. She was too young to be out before the wedding. And they haven’t got parents anymore, you know, so she was living with Hattie and Willard afterward. I guess she wanted to escape whatever nastiness was going on there, because she left for boarding school right after things got so chilly between them.”
Vivian took another drink to hide her thoughtful expression. Something about Myrtle had put both her sister and the housekeeper on edge, something more than a girl’s normal wildness or surliness. But the family was hiding it well, if even an eager gossip like Mags had no inkling anything was amiss.
Maybe Hattie’s courtship with Wilson had left her without enough time to keep an eye on her sister. Maybe Myrtle had been rebellious in the face of her sister’s marriage—
“What is it?” Mags said eagerly. “Did Myrtle say something to you? About why her sister and Willard fell out?”
“Oh, no. No, nothing like that.” Vivian tried to think of an excuse for her silence and said the first thing that popped into her head. “I saw your fella Roy there. Talking with Mrs. Wilson.”
Mags’s expression grew sour. “He’s not my fella anymore, that’s for sure. Real cute to know he’s still sniffing around Hattie.” She rolled her eyes as she leaned back. “Hope he enjoys jumping as soon as she snaps her fingers, in spite of everything she did.”
“What did she do?”
“Turned down his proposal,” said Mags, her mouth twisting in jealousy that was less hidden than she probably realized. “And then accepted Willard’s less than a week later. Hattie was always going to want the man who keeps his hands clean, not the one who does the ugly work behind the money.”
“Did Roy work with Mr. Wilson, then?” Vivian couldn’t help the shocked laugh that bubbled up. Mags was so good at her gossip that Vivian could almost forget what she was trying to do with their conversation—almost, but not quite. “God, that’s awkward for him.”
Mags couldn’t keep her petulant expression going, and she ended up giggling too. “It must have been, don’t you think? Roy’s family doesn’t have as much money as they pretend to, and he didn’t like people knowing he worked for his cash instead of living on daddy’s dime. Luckily Willard’s business was the sort where Roy could get paid off the books.”
Vivian raised her eyebrows. “Guessing Mr. Wilson was in the drugstore business?”
“Something like, though I don’t think he owned any himself,” Mags said. “It wasn’t even a secret; everyone knew Willard was involved in running liquor. Well, who isn’t these days, one way or another? But it was foul, let me tell you. Nasty bathtub gin from Chicago and who knows what else. Dad would never buy from him.”
“Do you think it got him killed?” Vivian asked, widening her eyes as if the thought had only just occurred to her and watching Mags’s reaction closely. She wondered how far she could push before Mags got suspicious.
But the other girl just shrugged. “I heard his heart gave out, of all things. And it seems like Hattie’s not wasting any time moving on. She can be a nasty piece of work.”
Vivian thought of Hattie Wilson’s careful politeness to even the servants and delivery girls, of her gentleness toward her unhappy sister. It didn’t seem to her like a fair accusation. But she didn’t say anything as Mags continued.
“Though that’s a real pickle for her, him dying before the baby arrives. Or maybe not.” Mags shrugged again, starting to look a little bored. “Willard wouldn’t have been any good as a father.”
“I had heard the baby might not have been…” Vivian hesitated. She hadn’t heard, of course, but she suspected. And maybe Mags knew something. “She seemed pretty friendly with Roy for a woman whose husband just died.”
Mags’s jaw tightened for a moment. “Well, if that’s the way things were, then I’m glad to be shot of him.” She snorted. “It would be just like Hattie to manage everything so neatly.” The ugly look passed over her face once more, bitter and hurt and jealous. “Though I’ll tell you, Hattie’s a smart girl. She didn’t care about Roy enough to choose him over Willard, and now she’s a rich widow. Why would she give that up, even with a little monster on the way? Roy’s a fool if he thinks he’ll be sailing back into her life now, even with Willard out of the picture.” She looked pleased. “Poor stupid bastard.”
TWENTY-THREE
How late will you be out tonight?”
Florence didn’t look up from her magazine—three months out of date and one she had read five times already—as she asked the question.
It was the first she had spoken to Vivian since her lie to Miss Ethel that morning. They had left the dressmaker, come home to make dinner, and washed up, all without Florence saying a single word. Vivian had wanted to thank her sister, but Florence’s silences were like the border to a foreign country. She was afraid to cross, even with a white flag in hand.
“Not too late,” Vivian said. She wanted to be relieved that it was a simple question instead of a fight, but she couldn’t be. She watched her sister warily, waiting for some sign of how much more Florence could bear.
Florence nodded, still not looking up. She would have looked like she didn’t care at all if it hadn’t been for the small tears spiderwebbing out from where her fingers clutched the magazine pages too tightly. “Home before dawn then?”
“Absolutely.” Vivian hesitated. “Flo—”
“It doesn’t matter.” Florence’s words dropped like icicles, dangerous and brittle, shattering on impact. “Just don’t forget we have work tomorrow.”
“I’m trying to help us,” Vivian blurted out. “We’re stuck, Flo, we’re going in circles and there’s no way out or up or through, not honestly. And if I can just—”
“Find a man?” Florence asked. She turned a page, smoothing out the creases and rips.
“Not a man,” Vivian snapped. She took a deep breath, remembering the white flag. Florence was all she had. They had spent years cultivating the distance between them, but they couldn’t lose each other. “There are people who know…”
“Know what?” Florence snorted. “Dark secrets that can help us, if we know the right place to use them?”
“Yes,” said Vivian, helpless, close to begging. She said again, “I’m trying to help us.”
Florence shook her head. “There’s no need, Vivian. You found your escape, and that’s … that’s fine. If it makes it all bearable for you, that’s fine. I’ll stay here in the real world.”
“I’m not leaving you, Flo.”
A shrug. “You left me the first night you put on dancing shoes. You picked a world where I can’t follow. Even if I wanted to.” She glanced up at last, her expression bleak. “Just make sure it’s worth it. Before you can’t get out, make sure it’s worth it.”
“Plenty of people in this city go out dancing or have a drink and a smoke from time to time,” Vivian protested, though she wondered whether she was trying to convince Florence or herself.
She wanted to help her sister, but she had agreed to Honor’s favor long before that. Was it because of the money she owed or because she didn’t want to say no when Honor smiled at her? Did she love the Nightingale because she felt at home there or because she couldn’t stop fighting against the narrow prison of the life she had been born into?
Florence shook her head, her eyes on her magazine once more. “Those aren’t what worry me, Vivian. And you know it.”
There was nothing to say, so Vivian didn’t try. She thought of the gun, wondered where it had come from and whether it was still there. One of these days, Florence would bend so far that she ended up breaking. Vivian wondered how much of the blame would fall on the world they lived in and how much of it would fall on her.
TWENTY-FOUR
It was too early for the speakeasy to be open when Vivian arrived at the Nightingale, but this time Silence only gave her a quick once-over before he sighed and stood aside.
“Evening, fella,” Vivian said jauntily. She took a deep breath as she stepped inside, the air alive with the memory of smoke and Shalimar and wild joy. She pushed Florence to the back of her mind. “Honor around yet?”
Silence shrugged, and Vivian shrugged in reply, mimicking his stoic scowl until it almost cracked into a smile. “Bandstand,” he grunted at last.
Vivian savored the victory as she blew him a kiss and went in.
Honor was arguing with the band leader over the set list, while Danny and several other employees ferried liquor from the cellar in preparation for the night. Vivian smiled, remembering Mr. Lawrence’s approving assessment of the Nightingale’s bar, as she went to a nearby table and waited for Honor to notice her.
It didn’t take long.
“I’m not objecting to a waltz,” Honor was saying. “I know we need something slower after the quickstep unless we want everyone to drop dead before midnight. I’m just not sold on this one. It’s too dreary. I’m running a jazz club, not a funeral parlor.”
“Folks seem to like it, and you’re not the one out there on the floor,” the band leader countered. “Why not try dancing to it and see what you think?”
Honor sighed. “I suppose that’s fair. What do you say, Vivian?” she asked without turning around. “Care for a waltz?”
Vivian jumped at the sound of her name. She hesitated, then, as Honor glanced over her shoulder, nodded. “Sure thing. Though I warn you, I’m not a girl who loves a waltz, so I’m not going to be the best judge.”
“Perfect. We need an unbiased opinion here.” Honor held out her hand. “Hope you don’t mind me leading?”
Vivian shook her head, not trusting her voice to push any words past the knot of excitement in her chest. Honor had asked her to dance more than once, but this was the first time she had said yes. As the first melancholy notes filled the dance hall, she took Honor’s hand and allowed herself to be drawn close.
Like all the best leads, Honor barely used her hands or arms to direct the dance. Instead, she moved them with her whole body. Vivian followed without needing to think about it, their path tracing a slow, beautiful sweep around the dance floor. Honor wore perfume, she discovered, a heady mix of vanilla and spice that hovered around her wrists and collarbone.
She had thought it would be awkward, dancing together for the first time and her unable to hide her thoughts in the darkness of a crowded dance floor. She knew that the entire band and every employee currently hovering around the bar was watching. But when Honor smiled, it wasn’t her normal sultry, taunting expression. Instead, she looked happy, relaxed in a way that she usually couldn’t be. Vivian found herself relaxing too.
