A Fine Imitation

by Amber Brock

  Bea’s lowered lids suggested she was not impressed. “You mean your part of town? I’m meeting a friend. Other people live around here too, you know.”

  “So you knew I was living at the Angelus?”

  “Fleming couldn’t shut up about his high-class visitor. I pieced it together.”

  Vera stepped closer to the nearest building, out of the way of the passing crowd. She lowered her voice. “I saw the news about him. The arrest.”

  Bea laughed. “Fleming? He’ll be fine.”

  “And you?”

  “Don’t you know me at all? I’m already fine.”

  “Why are you still in the city? Aren’t the police looking for you?”

  “No. They’re looking for Bea Stillman.” Bea paused to let the meaning sink in. Her eyes gleamed with defiance. “So this is what became of Vera Longacre. You married Arthur and got everything you wanted. Is it? What you wanted? Ever wish you got a new name?”

  Vera could hear the questions behind the one Bea asked. Was it worth it? What you did to me? She threw her shoulders back. “You lied to me.”

  “I didn’t lie to you. I just didn’t tell you everything. There’s a difference. I deserved a new start.” Bea’s grin was a flash of the girl from ten years ago. “Now I can get one whenever I like. As a matter of fact, I am leaving the city. Soon. But I’m so glad we had the chance to catch up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really don’t want to take up any more of your valuable time.”

  Vera held Bea’s gaze. A sudden urge to say everything she would have said on that awful day at Vassar seized her, and she could not move. Bea watched her, studying Vera’s face as she struggled. Vera willed the apology to come, but it would not. She wanted to say she had been wrong. She needed to confess. She craved forgiveness, even if she did not deserve it.

  Instead, she said, “I had to. You know I had to.”

  “Hmph. You ‘had to.’ ” Bea cocked her head. “That man I saw you with at the movie theater. I know that wasn’t Arthur.” She flicked the newspaper. “Society pages. You and Arthur are all over them, and I’ve never seen that man with you once.”

  Vera shook her head. “No.”

  “So? Is that man ruining your life, or saving it?”

  “I…” Vera swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

  Bea’s tight smile was somewhere between amusement and pity. “I hope someday you’ll realize you don’t always ‘have to.’ Good-bye, Vera.”

  Vera stood on the corner, unable to watch Bea walk away.

  Double-cross. One of those vulgar slang terms she would have chided Bea for using. The word would never pass her lips, especially not now, in the heart of the very act. The proper term to use would be betray. Her mother’s euphemism for it would be preservation. Preserving one’s own reputation. Slang, proper, or euphemistic, all versions of the concept applied to Vera’s presence in the dean’s office.

  The kindness of the slender, white-haired woman’s eyes did nothing to calm Vera’s shaking hands. Two cups of tea sat, untouched, on the table between them. Vera gripped the arms of her chair, grateful that her mother had not been allowed to sit in the office while the meeting took place. Her mother’s gloating presence would make the lie harder to say.

  “If you could, I’d like you to tell me in your own words what happened.” Miss McCaleb even smiled, but Vera couldn’t return the gesture.

  “I didn’t know Bea made the letters. She told me she’d written to my mother in secret, to surprise me. I thought we had permission.” Vera intoned the words she’d rehearsed in her head in a dull voice. The lie scraped her throat as it came out, but she could not reach for the tea. She didn’t deserve comfort.

  “Where did you stay in New Haven?”

  “She had a friend at a ladies’ boardinghouse. Otherwise I would have asked to come straight back. I would have known. It all seemed right.”

  “Then what did you say when you saw there was no chaperone?” Miss McCaleb asked.

  “I knew it was strange, but she said the school had approved her cousin as chaperone. I thought since he was her family it must have been a special case. And we were staying with ladies…” Exhaustion washed over her. She wanted the conversation to be over. She battled the lump in her throat and put the appropriate level of pleading into her voice. “Bea lied, that’s all. She tricked me. I promise. I would never knowingly disobey the school’s rules. Or my mother’s.”

  Miss McCaleb scanned the papers on her desk, then removed her reading glasses. “I want to set your mind at ease. Obviously I can’t discuss another student’s discipline, but I can say your record these past few years speaks for itself, just as Miss Stillman’s speaks for her. This incident has also brought to light some information about her behavior at her previous school…but I won’t trouble you with that. We have a very clear picture of Beatrice Stillman. After hearing your two versions of the story, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I’ll have my official determination tomorrow morning.” She tilted her head sympathetically. “But please, Miss Longacre, do be careful in the future about whom you choose as a friend.”

  Miss McCaleb said a few more things, Vera’s mother came in, fears were assuaged, and final pleasantries exchanged. But Vera heard none of it. Nothing after the word friend. She lay in bed that night, staring at the blank darkness of the hotel room. Friend rang in her head, again and again, silly and empty. Vera couldn’t give a thought to whether or not she was a true friend. Not when everything confirmed she wasn’t even a good person. Oh, she was a very good Longacre. She’d make a good wife to Arthur, too. A good member of the society to which she was born. But a good person?

  No, she thought. I made my choice.

  As the days passed, Vera grew more and more agitated at the thought that, at any moment, news might be traveling across the Atlantic from Stanton’s sources. News she did not want to hear. Despite the detective’s warnings that her secret would come out, she continued to visit Hallan in the mornings. She could not keep herself away. Stanton was correct to say she could not go on as she had forever, but when she was in Hallan’s arms, the need to end the affair never felt as urgent as she knew it should. She tried to forget the awkward interaction with Bea on the street, but every look at Hallan’s face reminded her of Bea’s question: Is that man ruining your life, or saving it? Vera feared the answer was “both.”

  She kept up some of her social schedule in the afternoons and evenings, though she declined as many invitations as she accepted. In her absence, something about the teas and card games began to change, so that when she joined them again everything was slightly off. The strangeness eased in like a fog, covering everything before Vera quite noticed it was there. The other women grew colder, their conversations distilled down to talk of the weather or the ballet. At last, she realized they were waiting to really talk until she was not there. They wanted to talk about Hallan, and she was in the way.

  She had not been back from Hallan’s long enough to take off her hat one morning when a knock sounded at the door. Evans looked at her questioningly.

  “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Go ahead, though,” she said.

  He opened the door to reveal Poppy, who breezed right by without acknowledging him.

  “Vera, good, you’re home,” she said airily. “Do you have a moment? I’d like to speak to you.”

  “Of course. Evans there can take your gloves, if you like.” Vera stared pointedly at the man closing the door.

  “Oh. Here.” Poppy yanked her gloves off and held them out to the side, waiting silently until he took them.

  “Well,” Vera said. “Won’t you come into the drawing room? I was just going to call for a cup of tea. Would you like something?”

  “No, thank you,” Poppy said. “I can’t stay long.”

  She followed Vera into the drawing room and sat on the couch. Vera sat on a chair, more comfortable with the coffee table between them as a buffer.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of thi
s unexpected visit?” Vera said.

  Poppy looked her up and down. “You can save the pleasantries, Vera. You don’t need them with me anymore.”

  Vera clenched her teeth. “Oh? How’s that?”

  “I’ve found out something very interesting about you.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.” A slow, snakelike smile crept across Poppy’s face. “It seems the perfect Vera can make mistakes. You see, I know what you’ve been up to with the artist.”

  A pleasant calm washed over Vera. The fear of this moment had plagued her, but she had not once imagined Poppy Hastings would be the one to confront her. Any dread she had was replaced with the usual certainty that she need not fear this woman. She gave a cold smile, and Poppy’s smug look wavered.

  “How did you find out?” Vera asked.

  Poppy sat up a little straighter. “My maid spoke to his maid. I guess they’re friends, and they were in my kitchen talking. His maid said something about a woman coming around a lot. Big secret, he always gives her and his valet mornings off. Said the valet told her it was someone in the building, dark hair, very posh.” She sniffed. “Are you going to try to deny it now?”

  Vera had prepared several plausible denials for just this sort of occasion, but she would not dignify Poppy’s pathetic attempt to frighten her. The woman would not leave Vera’s home victorious over her, not for any reason. She kept her tone light and comfortable. “No. I won’t deny it.”

  Poppy’s eyes widened, and she cleared her throat. “Well. Good. Because I knew anyway. You were so wary of him when he got here, then all of a sudden you were defending him. Wouldn’t let anyone say a word against him. And I saw how angry you were when he…well, after the incident in Montauk. When he tried to seduce me. And then he ran after you to console you.”

  Vera folded her arms on her chest. “Aren’t you clever? And tell me, what do you plan to do with this information? I assume you’ll tell Arthur. Were you going to phone him, or just drop an anonymous note in the post?”

  Poppy opened and closed her mouth a few times before she could get any words out. “I will. I will tell Arthur. Unless you agree to a few things.”

  “Oh, so it’s blackmail. All right, let’s hear your demands.”

  Poppy’s eyes narrowed. “I want what you have.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re the one the other ladies look to. They listen to you. Respect you. And now, I want you to respect me. Whenever there’s a decision to be made among us, you will defer to me.” Poppy pointed at Vera. “And I won’t have you chastising me anymore, either. In public or in private.”

  Vera felt a little twinge in her heart at how pitiful the terms were. “Respect is something earned, Poppy. It cannot be gifted or transferred.”

  “You’ll figure out a way, or I’ll tell your little secret to anyone who will listen.”

  “And you’ll still be a gossip.”

  Poppy stood. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you? Just because you live in the penthouse, and I live on the fifth floor.”

  “This isn’t about money. There are plenty of vulgar people with lots of money.”

  “Are you calling me vulgar?”

  Vera rose from her chair and took a few slow steps toward Poppy. “I think you are a rude woman. And ungrateful. I think you are a little girl playing dress-up, and that nothing will ever be enough. You want to take my place? Take it. It won’t be enough. There will always be some prize out of reach, some penthouse above a woman like you.”

  Poppy’s nostrils flared, and she clutched her purse so hard her knuckles turned white. “How dare you talk to me like that? When I know what I do?”

  Vera leaned in. “Because I’m not afraid of you. Tell Arthur, if it will make you feel better. Much good may it do you. I’d be surprised if he wasn’t more annoyed that you’d bothered him.”

  Poppy started to tremble. “I will tell him. I will! I’ll tell everyone. I’ll give you some time to think it over, because once you realize what this means, I’m sure you’ll see things my way. I can ruin you.”

  She stormed toward the door and slammed it behind her. Alone once more, Vera sat in the nearest chair, drawing in a deep breath. Why had she made no attempt to deny the affair? She could have at least bought herself a little more time. But she could not let Poppy dominate her. Vera could not conceive of a moment so dark that she would yield to a callow gold digger. Daring her to tell provided a moment of welcome amusement, but now that Poppy’s flustered expression was no longer in view, Vera regretted her choice to admit so easily to the affair. She did not really believe Poppy would tell Arthur, at least not directly. He intimidated her too much for her to march up with news of his wife’s infidelity. She would, however, take great pleasure in telling the other women as soon as it became apparent that Vera had no intention of deferring to her. That was what Poppy really wanted, and she would give it time to happen. Still, the news would get to Arthur one way or another, and he would make sure her mother knew. Then she would really have to answer for the affair, and they would certainly see to it that Hallan suffered, too. The only question left now was not if, but when.

  As Vera predicted, Poppy did not seem to rush to make good on her threat to tell Arthur about Vera and Hallan. Arthur came home from work relatively early the next few evenings, and even dined with Vera twice without saying a word. It occurred to Vera that Poppy had evidence enough to satisfy herself and the other ladies, but maybe not enough to present to Vera’s husband as damning proof. The word of a maid and speculation from Poppy would never rattle Arthur. But apparently she had been true to her word about giving Vera time to concede, as no one else acted as if they knew about the affair either. The other women continued to invite her to social events and were cordial as ever in their interactions.

  Though Vera knew she was tempting fate, she continued to visit Hallan. She knew she ought to stop. Every night she convinced herself she would not go back, and every morning her feet led her to his door.

  One morning she rolled over, tangling herself in the sheets as he sat up beside her. “You’ve given up telling me things, do you realize that?” she asked.

  Hallan toyed with a lock of her hair. “You’re too clever as it is. Any more information would ruin you.”

  She sat up on one elbow. “Believe me, I know by now you’re not going tell me anything of consequence. We’ve talked about art, poetry, music…but not you.”

  He held up his hands. “That is me. Those are the things I care about.”

  She sighed and lay on her back. “Poppy knows about us. I should have told you. She visited me the other day. Seems your maid has a loose tongue.”

  “You don’t seem worried.”

  “I ought to be.” She studied the white metal tiles of the ceiling. “Stanton knows, too.”

  “Who?”

  “The private investigator.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Probably. Soon everyone will, at this rate.”

  “I hope Arthur’s next. Then you can leave with me.”

  She swatted his arm. “I’ve told you, that’s not going to happen.”

  “But it could. If you wanted to, you could go.”

  “I’d need a better reason than that.” She lifted her slip from the chair and dressed as Hallan prepared to leave to work.

  When Vera came in from Hallan’s, Evans surprised her with the news that she had a caller in the drawing room. She went in to find Stanton sitting on the couch, drinking a cup of coffee. A stack of folded pages sat on the table beside him. On seeing Vera, Stanton put his cup on the table and rose.

  “Mr. Stanton,” she said. “So good of you to come.”

  He nodded. “Mrs. Bellington.”

  “Please, sit. I assume you have news for me?”

  He took the papers from the table, and her heart began to drum against her ribs. Her head swam, and she sat. Before he spoke, he flipped through them, as if to remind himself of their cont
ents. He looked up and met her gaze.

  “Are you sure you want to know?” he asked.

  “Y-yes,” she said, her voice small and wispy.

  He sighed. “I had my contact comb through records in Paris. He telegraphed and wrote to associates in London. He was very thorough. Birth records, hospitals, police precincts, prisons. He visited the school Mr. Hallan says he attended. All of it pointed to the same answer.”

  “And what’s that?” Vera’s nails dug into her palms in an effort to keep her hands from shaking.

  “There is no Emil Hallan.”

  For a moment, Vera sat unblinking. That could not be true. She had held Hallan’s hand in the ocean. She kissed him. She felt his heartbeat close to hers. He told her about how he chose the colors, how art was supposed to make you feel human. He gave her poetry. She had wondered if he might be a criminal of the worst kind. She could never have imagined that he might not exist at all. One word escaped her, more a whimper than a word. “What?”

  “There were no records of any man by that name in London or Paris. No one by that name at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Well, who is he then?”

  “That I don’t know. I’m still working to match his description, but that could take a very long time.” He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “Long enough for him to leave before I find it, I’m afraid. Do you understand?”

  Vera nodded. She drew in a few labored breaths. He was not Emil Hallan. Or, if he was, he had not gone to the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris. Nor had he been born in London. Her stomach twisted.

  Who was he?

  “I do know one thing for certain,” Stanton said, with a slight hesitation.

  “O-oh?”

  He rubbed his chin. “You paid for his passage from Paris, correct? On the Leviathan?”

  “We did.”

  “I spoke with several attendants on the Leviathan. Mr. Hallan’s stateroom was never occupied.”