by Erin Lindsey
“Hewitt and George.” Two days ago, those names hadn’t meant much to me, but I had a feeling I’d be hearing them a lot in the days to come.
“And their most ardent supporters, though we mustn’t rule out the Republicans. It’s possible the attack came from within the party, in an effort to secure the nomination for someone else.”
“We can’t just go around interrogating the candidates for mayor,” I pointed out. “Byrnes would have us locked up on Blackwell’s Island before nightfall.”
“Agreed. We’ll need to come at them indirectly, through their agents and backers. It will have to be a covert operation. Soirees, banquets, rallies. Wherever our targets gather in numbers. We can make our start tomorrow, in fact, at the reception for Lord Barringsdale. All of society will be there. We’ll need introductions to some of the key players, but fortunately, we know just the man for the job.”
“Mr. Burrows? I’m not sure he’ll be eager to help after what I put him through.”
“Arranging an invitation for luncheon is hardly the same as sifting through the gastrointestinal tract of a dead man.”
Unfortunately, Thomas happened to speak these words at the precise moment our soup arrived. If I live to be a hundred, I expect I’ll never see a fine luncheon arranged with such haste, and in such perfectly appalled silence. Silver flashed and bone china clinked, and with a perfunctory offer of peppercorns, our waiter fled.
“Please forgive my manners, Rose,” Thomas murmured. “Entirely inappropriate luncheon conversation.”
“I’m the one who brought it up,” I said, gazing unhappily at the contents of my bowl. I needn’t have worried, though; bringing a tentative spoonful to my mouth, I discovered that turtle tastes a lot like chicken.
“One more thing we ought to address, which is the matter of your living accommodations.”
My spoon froze halfway to my mouth.
“No need to panic. We’ve bought ourselves a little time with our new cover story. No one will think it inappropriate for a visiting relative to reside with me for a time, particularly if they assume you have a chaperone. But that excuse will not serve indefinitely. We’ll need to find you a new home.”
“You’re right, of course.” I forced myself to carry on eating. I’d known this dreaded day would come. But the idea of leaving, of no longer seeing Thomas first thing in the morning and late in the evening, of being just a colleague like any other … it hurt in the very center of my being. And where would I go?
“I don’t suppose you’ll want to return to Five Points, especially if this new street gang Jackson mentioned is as troublesome as all that. But perhaps somewhere within easy distance, so you can visit your mother. There are some very respectable options near Washington Square.”
“I could never afford that neighborhood.”
“You might be surprised,” he said breezily, reaching for a roll. “Prices are not what they once were now that fashion has moved north. With your salary, you ought to be able to find something comfortable.”
“Thomas.” I set my spoon down, looking at him incredulously. “I earn a good deal more than I used to, it’s true, but I also had room and board included. Now I’ll have to pay for my own room and board, on top of Mam’s, with only a little contribution from Pietro. Either that, or have Mam move in with me and hire someone to look after her. How much of my twenty dollars a week do you suppose will be left after that?”
Thomas’s hand faltered as he reached for his wine. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mam’s rent isn’t too costly, but I also need to keep a little aside, in case something unexpected happens.”
His hand remained frozen mid-reach. “I see,” he said, and for a fleeting moment, something like anger passed through his eyes. “Forgive me, Rose, I didn’t realize.” He grabbed his wine and took a hasty sip. “That is, I had forgotten about your mother’s expenses.”
“Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not complaining. I’m sure I’ll be able to find something suitable. Just not in Washington Square.” It was all I could do not to smile, in spite of myself. Wealthy as he was, Thomas probably paid no attention to things like salaries and rent. I took some comfort in knowing that there were some subjects, at least, on which he was the novice.
Of course, they were few and far between, as his next words made plain. “You’ll have access to the expense account for your toilet, at least.”
“Expense account?”
“Certainly. The Pinkerton Agency will be responsible for all costs associated with the performance of your duties. You must look the part, after all.”
Confusion gave way to horror as I realized what he meant. I’d thought multitudes of tiny forks were intimidating, but this … Helplessly I glanced down at my dress, and my fevered imagination took over. Layer upon layer of fabric seemed to materialize before my eyes: chemises and petticoats, bustles and bodices, underskirts and overskirts and stifling corsets, all of it enveloping me in an ever-tightening cocoon. Already it felt as if I were struggling to draw air.
“I trust you paid careful attention during your dancing lessons,” Thomas said. “You’re going to need them.”
CHAPTER 8
LORD AND TAILOR—LOOKING THE PART—OFF TO BATTLE
“Rose, honey, I don’t even know what this is.” Clara held up a set of cotton stays, buttoned at the front and laced at the back.
“An underbodice?” I hazarded. “Or maybe a corset cover?”
“Is there a difference?”
“I have no idea. I have no idea about any of this!” I gestured helplessly at the mountain of parcels gathered on the floor around us.
They’d been arriving all afternoon: box after box of silk and satin, tulle and lace, summoned by Thomas from the grandest cast-iron palaces along Ladies’ Mile. I’d only ever glimpsed such treasures from the el as it rattled past the brightly lit showrooms on Sixth Avenue. I’d never thought to have them arrayed at my feet like this, and now that they were, they terrified me. One box contained reams of satin that glided like water between my fingers, so fine that I was sure my rough housemaid hands would snag it to ribbons. Another was labeled PASSEMENTERIE, which sounded like some sort of pastry but proved to be fringes and braids and sundry other trimmings. There were beaded slippers and suede gloves, miraculously all in my size, as well as a full complement of undergarments. Also in my size, I realized with dawning horror as I drew yet another lacy thing from its box. My cheeks grew hot.
“Before you go imagining things, it was me gave that lady from Altman’s your size. Mr. Wiltshire passed the ’phone to me, looking even more red-faced than you are right now. Though why you didn’t just go down there yourself is beyond me. Least then we’d know what this is supposed to be.” She held up a braided wire contraption attached to a leather belt.
“They’re not open on Sundays. Frankly, I don’t even know how Thomas made this happen.”
“Rich folks can make anything happen. But if it was me, I’d’ve waited till morning and done it myself.”
“It wouldn’t leave the seamstress enough time, no matter how many assistants she has.” That had been my thinking, at any rate, but I almost regretted the decision now. On the one hand, I was grateful to have been spared the daunting marble labyrinth of A. T. Stewart’s. Then again, I would never have chosen the alarming shade of yellow that someone at Arnold Constable had seen fit to select. Either way, I was at their mercy, being even less enlightened than Thomas on the subject of elegant women’s fashions. All we could do was inform the sages of Ladies’ Mile of our upcoming social calendar and leave the rest to their judgment.
Which apparently included a bustle the size of a spotted hog. “Sweet Mary and Joseph,” I said, taking the wire contraption from Clara. “How on earth are you supposed to sit with one of these strapped to your caboose?”
She shook her head, eying the thing distrustfully. “And what about jewelry? You can’t very well wear that.”
My hand went to the little wo
oden crucifix at my throat. “I suppose not. We wouldn’t want people to know I’m a papist, would we?”
“They might faint clean away.”
We shared a wry look.
“When does the seamstress get here?”
“Soon, I hope.” Thomas’s tailor had already arrived; the two of them were shut away in his rooms, composing yet another impeccable ensemble. It was a measure of the importance of tomorrow night’s event that even Thomas, always finely dressed, felt the need for something new. I guess it wasn’t every day that a genuine English lord came to town. Presumably, Thomas wanted to make a good impression on his countryman.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Clara said, “ain’t nobody getting into these stays by herself. I suppose I’m the one strapping you into this costume tomorrow night?”
“If you’re willing.”
“I’ve done worse for you.”
Now that was the God’s honest truth.
“All of society will be there, Thomas says, including Mr. Roosevelt. That means there’s a chance our killer will be, too.”
“How will you know him?”
“Good question. The only description we have is of a tall, gangly fellow, and we’re not even sure he was the killer. All we can do is keep a careful eye on the guests and try to coax some information out of them.”
“While you’re all togged up like a princess, sippin’ champagne at a fancy party. Tough work.” Clara held up another length of satin, this one a rich ruby red. “Well, now. This is fit for a lord, and no mistake.”
“I beg your pardon, ladies.” Thomas appeared in the doorway, his tailor in tow. A dapper-looking Englishman, Mr. Jennings was lately of someplace called Savile Row, a name Thomas pronounced with great reverence. “We wondered if Miss Gallagher had selected a fabric, that Mr. Jennings might coordinate various of my accouterments.”
I scrambled to my feet and dusted off the seat of my skirt, embarrassed. Aside from the indignity of being caught sitting on the floor, I’d made a thorough mess of Thomas’s parlor. Even my generous guest bedroom couldn’t accommodate all the parcels, so we’d been obliged to receive them here. Between the boxes and paper and little embossed cards, it looked like a small tornado had passed through.
“I’m not sure what to say, Mr. Jennings,” I told the tailor apologetically. “The seamstress hasn’t arrived yet.”
“May I inquire as to the name of the couturière?” Mr. Jennings asked in an accent nearly as posh as Thomas’s.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The, er … seamstress. Whom are you using?”
“Madam Calvary,” Thomas informed him, “on your recommendation.”
“Very good, sir. In that case, I shall be in touch with her directly, once madam has had the opportunity to make her selection.”
I wasn’t sure which madam he meant—the seamstress or myself—but I could guess.
Thomas showed the tailor out, returning a moment later to find Clara and me struggling to put the parlor right. “Rose, may I distract you for a moment before the couturière arrives? I have a few names to add to our list of potential suspects following my discussion with Mr. Jennings.”
“You consulted your tailor about a murder investigation?”
He met my skeptical eyebrow with a challenging one of his own. “Tailors hear a great deal, as do barbers, barkeeps, and bootblacks. A bit of idle chitchat can extract all manner of useful information.”
I followed him to his study, where he took up the list we’d been working on and penned a few more names. “I’ll copy this out and send it to Sergeant Chapman. He’ll be wondering how we’re getting on. In the meantime, here are the gentlemen we can expect to find at the reception tomorrow evening.” He handed me the list, each name inked out in his precise handwriting, as tidy as a tin plate.
The names, too, were the stuff of newsprint. The cream of New York society, not to mention an assortment of foreign dignitaries, and of course a genuine English lord. My heart started beating faster.
I looked up to find Thomas’s eyes on me. “No need to be nervous. It’s only supper and dancing.”
Only supper and dancing? Clearly, he didn’t understand. “This isn’t my world, Thomas.”
“But it is.” He took me gently by the shoulders, turning me about. “Look around you. This room, this house … You’ve lived here as an equal for the better part of a year.”
“But a society event…”
“There’s nothing new in that. You’ve dined at Burrows’s a dozen times.”
“Only with the two of you. And the dancing … You said it yourself, I’ll need to remember my lessons, but—”
“I was only teasing, Rose. I’ve watched you dance. You’ll do splendidly.”
That drew me up short. I’d never seen Thomas at our dancing lessons. Aside from jujitsu, he’d always had other business to attend to while the recruits were put through their paces. “You’ve … watched me?”
“Of course.” His hands were still on my shoulders, his pale gaze holding me just as warmly.
My insides melted.
The ensuing silence was the most exquisite torture. He was so close that I could hear the Patek Philippe ticking softly in his pocket. I wanted so badly to take that extra step, to force the issue, to have it all out in the open one way or the other. I felt my breath coming faster, my pulse thudding in my ears. “Yes?” he murmured, and it sounded like an invitation.
The door swung open; I nearly leapt out of my skin. The thudding hadn’t been my heartbeat after all, but Clara knocking. Her eyes shifted from me to Thomas and back, narrowing. “Seamstress is here,” she said, her tone tinder dry.
“Coming,” I said weakly.
“Before you go.” Opening a drawer in his desk, Thomas produced a small parcel tied with ribbon. “I hope it will be to your liking.”
Inside, I found a brooch of pearls and tiny diamonds in an intricate lace pattern, with a single cushion-cut emerald at the center. At which point I very nearly fainted.
“You must look the part, after all.”
For a moment, I couldn’t find my voice. It was the most breathtaking thing I’d ever seen. Dazzling, yes, but not the vulgar sort of extravagance I’d seen illustrated in the pages of Frank Leslie’s. The design was elegant and restrained, speaking of a refined sensibility. Speaking, in other words, of the sensibilities of Thomas Wiltshire, leaving me little doubt he’d chosen the piece himself.
“It’s incredible,” I breathed. “New clothing I understand, but this … The Agency must be doing very well indeed.”
“Actually…” He cleared his throat. “This came from my personal funds.”
My head snapped up. “Thomas.”
“A necessary measure. Every lady in the room will be wearing her best jewels, and we can’t very well allow your cover to be compromised by such a glaring oversight. The gentlemen at Dreicer were good enough to open the store for me, but I would require special permission from the Agency for a purchase of this significance, and we haven’t time to obtain it. This seemed the only practical solution.”
“Yes, of course.” My gaze fell back to the glittering treasure in the box. “Practical.”
“I hope Madam Calvary will approve the combination of emerald and ruby, should you opt for the red satin.”
“It will match your cufflinks,” I said dazedly.
“Yes.” There was a stretch of silence. Thomas cleared his throat again. “Well, then, you’d best not keep Madam Calvary waiting.” Seating himself behind his desk, he took up his pen once more.
“Thomas.”
The pen wavered.
“It’s incredible. Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome, Rose.” He didn’t look up.
* * *
“Well, I suppose that’s it.” Clara folded her arms, surveying her handiwork. “I think everything’s on there right, and if it ain’t, it’s so far buried under heaps of silk and satin nobody’ll know the difference.”
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“Let’s hope so,” I said, staring at my reflection in the mirror. It was a strange sensation, seeing myself all togged up like a proper society lady. I’d never felt so pretty—or so self-conscious.
I’d never been so uncomfortable either. I could hardly believe that my waist had been trussed up into the narrow confines of my bodice, and as for my bosom, well … I actually had one, for a novelty. Neither of these bothered me so much as the bustle, though. I still couldn’t see how a person could reasonably sit down. I supposed I would find out soon enough.
“Quit worrying,” Clara said. “That Madam Calvary was as high-and-mighty as they come, but she knows her business. Why, just look at you.” She led me through a pirouette. In the mirror, I saw a young society lady in a sumptuous red dress trimmed with lace. The overskirt had been fashioned of the ruby satin Clara had admired, while an underskirt of deep garnet peeked out between extravagant gathers down the back. “That color is mighty fine on you. Brings out the hints of red in your hair. And that brooch…” She whistled, and my gaze dropped instinctively to the galaxy of diamonds and pearls fastened at the low neck of my bodice. “Do you get to keep it, or will the Agency make you take it back when this is all over?”
I avoided her eye. I hadn’t told her that Thomas had paid for the brooch. Clara knew how I felt about him, and she didn’t much like it, figuring that those feelings had only ever landed me in trouble. Which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely off the mark. If I’d told her about the brooch, she’d probably have warned me not to read anything into it—or to give it back straightaway. Neither prospect appealed.
“I just hope it’s over soon,” I said evasively, “though we’re not exactly off to a brisk start.” I’d spent the entire day sipping tea and browsing through newspapers in the Reading Room of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and all I had to show for it was an unholy amount of newsprint on my new white gloves. Hours of eavesdropping and small talk had yielded nothing of use, and I hadn’t spotted anyone answering to the description of the suspect. Thomas had fared no better at the Madison Club, though in the plus column, he’d come away with “several viable market tips,” and as for me, I could safely consider myself abreast of current events, having consumed every column inch of New York’s legion of newspapers.