Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel)

by Cate Campbell

  Unlike the Benedicts of Benedict Hall, the Benedicts of San Francisco drank no alcohol. Adelaide claimed it was fattening. Papa gave up whisky when Prohibition came in, saying if the Congress of the United States thought people shouldn’t drink, then that was good enough for him. Debutante parties mostly featured root beer and sweet tea. Adelaide had of course forbidden her daughter to sample the wines of Italy and France. Only on Berengaria had she tasted anything stronger than ginger ale. She accepted the Bee’s Knees Tommy recommended, and told herself she would get used to the taste. The room was much too loud for talking, but she and Tommy grinned at the other revelers at their table, and Allison sipped her drink and watched people.

  Drunk people, she decided, were fascinating. Their faces seemed to loosen, their mouths and eyelids slackening, their cheeks sagging as if the muscles beneath them had relaxed. Voices got louder, movements broader. Drinks spilled now and again, and once a chair fell over with a bang, kicked by someone trying to do the Black Bottom. At one point, two men started to shove and shout at each other, but the big man from the door appeared in an instant, and both men were gone before the altercation could really develop.

  Allison and Tommy had both jumped up for a better look at the fight. Tommy took her arm to settle her in her chair again, but her head suddenly spun, and she stumbled against him.

  “You all right, old thing?” he shouted in her ear.

  Allison swallowed hard and clung to his hand. She didn’t dare open her mouth to speak. Her second Bee’s Knees was threatening to come right up her throat.

  “Hang on, hang on,” Tommy said. “You just need some air.” He picked up her coat with one hand, and circled her waist with the other to turn her toward the door. She stumbled beside him, her head leaning on his shoulder. She felt horrible, sick and dizzy, so weak she could barely keep her feet.

  She hardly knew how they made it out through the maze of passages into the cold night air, but once there she did feel slightly better. Tommy bent over her as she leaned against the post of a streetlight, her eyes half closed with misery. “Food,” he said. She shook her head, but he pulled her upright and propelled her a few steps down the street. “Come on, First Class, there’s a café right over there. Some eggs and bacon, that’ll fix you right up.”

  When he guided her into the warm, steamy atmosphere of the café, the smells of frying meat and toasting bread made her stomach turn again, and she shuddered with nausea. Tommy, ignoring this, ordered platters of fried eggs and sausages, potatoes fried with onions, and stacks of thick brown toast. With the food in front of her, the sensation in her stomach steadied and transformed into a ravenous hunger. She took a piece of toast, then a bit of egg. The spinning of her head slowed. She ate a sausage, crisp on the outside and running with juice on the inside. Her head felt much clearer now, better than it had all evening. Coffee came, and she drank some, then took another piece of toast, swirling it in yellow egg yolk, downing it in three great bites.

  Tommy watched her with amusement. “Where are you putting that, First Class? You’re as wispy as a grasshopper!”

  Allison grinned at him and speared another sausage. She couldn’t stop herself. Her belly, quivering with sickness only twenty minutes before, began to feel tight and full, and it was a wonderful sensation. She finished her eggs and all the sausage on her plate. She took a third piece of toast and smothered it with jelly. Tommy had finished his meal and pushed his plate aside, but Allison fed herself until there was nothing left. A waiter in a dirty white apron took their plates without comment, and left them a bill scrawled on a slip of paper.

  Tommy paid the bill carefully, counting out his change. When they were on their way out, he said, “Feeling better, aren’t you? I was right—you needed food!”

  Allison tugged on her coat. “I guess so,” she said.

  “You must have! You ate enough for two hungry sailors!”

  “I—I’m sorry about that,” she said. Now that she had stopped gorging herself, the food in her stomach was growing heavy. Her belly felt distended, bulging against her chemise. She could still taste the richness of the sausages and the sweetness of strawberry jelly. Opposing sensations tumbled through her mind, pleasure and shame, relief and guilt. Her stomach, equally confused, began to rebel against its burden, rumbling and quivering, making her fear for what would happen next.

  “Why be sorry?” Tommy cried, even as she swallowed a sudden, terrifying rush of saliva. “I love a girl who enjoys her grub!”

  She looked up at him, suspecting he was making fun of her. His freckled face was wreathed in smiles, and his blue eyes danced with humor. His arm around her was warm and strong and friendly. He meant it, she thought. He really did. Nothing in her life had prepared her to expect such a thing.

  She walked to the streetcar with one hand on her stomach and the other under Tommy’s arm, and she pondered the mystery.

  Allison’s stomach had begun to churn in earnest by the time they climbed Aloha and reached Benedict Hall. She bade Tommy a hasty good night. He wanted to stay until she was safely in the back door, but she said in a shaking voice, “No, Tommy, you need to go. If I have to, I can knock, say I came down to the kitchen for something, then went out for a breath of air. If you’re here . . .”

  Gallantly, he said, “I can hide in the bushes!” but she gave him a little push, and he sauntered away, walking backward, waving and grinning and promising to write her from Hollywood. When he was finally out of sight, she hurried through the garden on trembling legs, stumbling around to the back lawn. Her stomach quaked, and she wanted only to reach the shrubberies before the inevitable happened.

  Allison hated throwing up. When she tried it that once with the spoon, it was disgusting and messy. She never wanted to do it again. It was no more pleasant now, but she couldn’t stop it. The muscles of her stomach clenched, saliva flooded her mouth, and everything she had consumed that night came rushing back. Her stomach seemed to turn itself inside out as she retched. Everything came up, and out, as she bent over the dry rosebushes and hoped no one was watching from the house.

  When there was nothing left, she still gagged. She longed to go into the kitchen to rinse her mouth, to wash her face and scrub her hands, to get rid of all this embarrassment, but every time she started for the porch steps, her stomach clutched again. It seemed to go on forever, and she knew it was because her stomach was unused to so much food. She had done it all to herself, and the shame of that—the guilt over her unrestrained gluttony—made the whole thing worse. She hunched over the flower bed, her hands on her knees. Tears of weakness streamed over her cheeks.

  “Allison? What’s happening? Are you ill?” It was, of all people, Cousin Margot.

  Allison couldn’t prevent the whimper of surprise that escaped her. She was caught. There would be a fracas in the morning. She wiped her mouth with unsteady hands, straightened with some difficulty over the ache in her belly, and turned to face her cousin.

  The moon had set, but the sky had begun to lighten over the mountains to the east. She could see Margot perfectly. She wore her wool overcoat with the fox collar, and a dark hat and gloves. She had her medical bag in one hand, and she reached toward Allison with the other.

  “Why are you outside?” she asked, taking Allison’s hand. “It’s cold, and you—have you been out?” Her eyes took in Allison’s clothes, her muddied shoes, her stockings, which must be revolting now, laddered and splashed with vomit.

  Allison shuddered to have Cousin Margot touch her filthy hand. She tried to wipe the tears from her face, but she knew she was a complete mess, and she trembled with humiliation. “I did go out,” she confessed in a rush. When Margot didn’t look shocked, or disgusted, or anything except concerned, she blurted, “I went to a speakeasy!” and then held her breath, prepared for the onslaught of reproach that was sure to follow.

  Instead, Margot drew her up onto the porch and in through the back door. She turned on the kitchen light, then pulled off her gloves and
pressed her fingers to Allison’s forehead. Evidently satisfied, she tipped up her chin to look into her eyes. “Did you drink anything?” she asked. “Were you sick?”

  “I did,” Allison said. She pulled her head away and dropped her gaze to her soiled shoes. “They’re called Bee’s Knees, but they taste like—I don’t know, like turpentine. And I was sick in the rose bed.” She wrapped her arms around her sore stomach, wishing she could just drop through the floor and disappear. Cousin Margot hadn’t called Papa before, but she surely would now. She would tell him all about Allison’s transgression, and when he heard—

  But Margot was nodding. “It’s just as well you were sick, Allison. You probably got it all out of you, and that’s good. Bootleg alcohol can be dangerous.” She went to the sink and ran a glass of water. “I’d like you to drink as much water as you can.” She held out the glass.

  Allison, hardly knowing how to react, accepted the glass and drained it. When it was empty, Margot filled it again and passed it back to her. Allison sipped it more slowly this time, cautious of her rebellious stomach. Margot was regarding her with that intent look, but Allison didn’t mind it so much now, when she really did feel ghastly.

  She finally said, “I’m awfully sorry, Cousin Margot.”

  Now Margot smiled, her narrow lips curving at the corners. There were smudges under her eyes, and she looked pale. She was tired, Allison thought. She must have been called to the hospital. She might not have been to bed at all. Margot said, “I suppose you went out with a boy tonight. I didn’t know you knew anyone here in Seattle.”

  Allison answered cautiously. “It was someone I met on my crossing.”

  “Really? And he came here?”

  “I think he likes me.”

  “Of course he does. You’re a very pretty girl.”

  It was an offhand compliment, a statement made easily, as if it were obvious, and Allison didn’t know how to respond. She would have to think about that later, when she didn’t feel so sick. She lifted one shoulder, not quite a shrug.

  Margot’s smile faded, and she fixed Allison with that searching gaze again. “I have to ask you something,” she said. “Despite your lack of menses, I need to make certain. There’s no chance you’re pregnant, is there?”

  Allison had never expected such a question. It sent a shiver through her, one of surprise, but also of recognition. Somehow, she knew this was important. She wished she knew why. She stammered, “I—I can’t be, can I, Cousin Margot? I’m not married.”

  Margot lifted one sleek eyebrow. “Surely you know, Allison, you don’t have to be married to conceive.”

  Mute, lost, Allison shook her head.

  Margot clicked her tongue and blew out a long, exasperated breath. Allison felt fresh tears start in her eyes, but Margot, seeing, put out a hand to touch her shoulder. “No, no, Allison, don’t cry. The fault for this lies at someone else’s door, I promise you. But you’re nineteen years old, and you really should know about sex.”

  “My mother said—” Allison began, then stopped, tongue-tied with confusion. Adelaide hadn’t said anything, in truth. She had said only that Allison would learn all about it from her husband, and she had implied that it would not be pleasant.

  Margot dropped her hand from Allison’s shoulder and gave her a tight, weary smile. “I’m so tired, Allison, I can hardly think. Perhaps we should talk about this some other time. But—” She held up one forefinger. “We should talk. It’s not fair for you to go on in ignorance. Not fair to you, I mean.”

  Allison made herself ask, “Are you going to call Papa?”

  At this Margot chuckled. “Oh, Lord, no, Allison. Nineteen! I can hardly blame you for wanting a little fun.”

  “I shouldn’t have gone out, I know.”

  “You took a risk,” Margot said. “Several of them, actually. But you don’t know anyone your age here. You must be lonely.”

  Again, Allison didn’t know how to answer. Her papa never worried if she was lonely. Adelaide only worried about how she looked. She just wasn’t used to discussing—or even acknowledging—her feelings.

  Margot gave a short nod and put her hand under Allison’s arm. “Well, there’s no harm done that I can see. Let’s get you to bed, unless you’re still feeling sick.”

  Allison shook her head. Her stomach felt tender, and her throat burned from having retched for so long, but she didn’t think she was going to throw up again.

  “Good,” Margot said. She picked up her medical bag in her other hand, and steered Allison toward the stairs. The back stairs, Allison noticed. They went up together, and when they reached Allison’s door, Margot pointed down the hall. She whispered, “If you feel ill again, knock on my door.”

  “Cousin Margot—”

  Margot had released her arm, but she waited, eyebrows lifted.

  Allison said softly, “You’ve been so nice.”

  “Not at all. I just want you to be safe,” Margot said.

  “Do you have to tell Uncle Dickson?”

  “I don’t think so.” Margot smiled again, and Allison thought she had rather a nice smile. It seemed more special because she didn’t use it very often. “Sleep, Allison. We both need to sleep. Let’s talk about everything tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 12

  After her evening with Tommy, Allison slept fitfully. She had never had reason to believe that promises meant anything, and despite Margot’s calm demeanor, she braced herself for trouble.

  She came into the dining room to find her cousin already at the table, looking pale and a bit puffy-eyed. Margot glanced up, murmured a distracted good morning, then sat in tired silence, drinking her coffee. Ramona came in, talking quietly with Dick. Edith came in with Dickson and sat down without speaking. Uncle Dickson grunted a general greeting and retreated behind the shield of the Times, just as he always did. Cousin Dick nodded to everyone before tucking into a bowl of oatmeal and several rashers of bacon. Allison took her seat across from the empty place setting, feeling like a small, drab mouse waiting for a trap to be sprung.

  It never happened. In a short time Margot and the men traipsed out the front door to meet Blake, waiting with the Essex. Ramona shepherded Aunt Edith upstairs. The twins peeked in to see if they could begin clearing the dining room.

  It seemed the trap had never been set. Relief made Allison tremble, and as she had suffered another bout of dizziness that morning, she ate an entire bowl of oatmeal with cream and brown sugar and raisins.

  Margot had been as good as her word. It was something to think about, and as Allison and Ruby set about sorting through her wardrobe for her warmest woolen things to prepare for winter weather, she had to accept that she had misjudged her cousin. Ruby chattered away, tossing out tidbits of news she had picked up from the housemaids. Allison wasn’t listening and missed most of it, until Ruby mentioned that Cousin Margot’s new clinic was ready.

  What interested Ruby, of course, was what had happened to the old one. “It burned up, Miss Allison,” she said. “That’s when your cousin Preston died. He got burned up, too.”

  “What?”

  “Your cousin Preston. He died in the fire.”

  “I knew that, but—what are they saying about it?”

  “Leona said—” She lowered her voice and looked around dramatically as if someone might be spying on them. “Leona said your cousin Preston started that fire. That he did it on purpose. Loena won’t speak his name, so Leona told me when her sister wasn’t in the room.”

  “Why won’t Loena speak his name?”

  Ruby shrugged. “Nobody said.”

  “Ruby, didn’t you ask?”

  “Oh, no, Miss Allison. My mother told me a lady’s maid should keep herself to herself. I try to do that.”

  Allison considered Ruby’s discretion to be a bit selective, but she didn’t say anything. Ruby wouldn’t understand if she pointed it out. Instead, she pulled a camel’s hair sweater out of the back of the wardrobe, put it to her nose, and sniffed it. “Th
is smells like mold,” she said.

  Ruby held out her hand for it and draped it over the bed. “I’ll air it on the line. It’s just been in the trunk too long.” She turned to survey the now-empty wardrobe. “Is that everything?”

  “It must be.”

  “But what about that?”

  Ruby pointed, and Allison followed her gesture. A fold of pink georgette peeked out from beneath the bed, startlingly bright against the dull wool of the rug. Allison’s heart thudded with fresh alarm. Even from here, she could see the dress was stained, soiled with dirt and rain and probably—revoltingly—sick. She started to push it out of sight with her foot, to kick it back into the darkness beneath the bed, but she was too late. Ruby was already bending, tugging it out, holding it up to the light. “What—what happened to your frock?” she exclaimed.

  Allison reached for it and pulled it from Ruby’s hands. “I must have dropped it,” she said.

  “Dropped it! Miss Allison, look at that hem! Who would have made such a mess?” Ruby, decisive for once, snatched the dress back and draped it over one arm. “It’s all uneven and—” She turned the hem up with her free hand and stared from the ragged seam to Allison’s face. “Did you try to do this yourself?”

  Facing this new threat of betrayal, Allison sagged onto the stool before her dressing table. “I—I didn’t want to bother you,” she said in a faint voice. Her breakfast shivered in her belly.

  “Bother me! More like, trying to do me out of my job,” Ruby said sourly.

  Allison caught her breath under a wave of guilty consternation. “Ruby, no! I wouldn’t—”

  Ruby interrupted her. “If you want to learn how to sew, you could just ask me, Miss Allison, though it ain’t—I mean isn’t—proper. You have me to do for you, don’t you? Why would you want to—” She turned the frock over, and her little spate of words trickled to a stop.