Seventeen
The band was in a mellow mood that night. Mr. Smith, the bandleader, kept Bea crooning one love song after another, her rich voice filling every corner. More than once, Vivian worried whether her friend would be able to keep up after spending all day on her feet on Fifth Avenue. But Bea’s voice never faltered. And the dancers were happy to keep their cheeks pressed close and hands clasped while their toes traced sweeping arcs across the floor.
Vivian longed to join them. As much as she loved the speed and wildness of a Charleston, there was nothing like the tingling electricity of finding a skillful partner for a tango. But she was waiting for one person in particular.
“Danny, where the hell is Honor?” she demanded, stretching out her aching shoulders as she deposited her tray on the bar. “Are you in charge tonight or something?”
“Aren’t I always, kitten?” he asked, pushing aside the hair that fell across his eyes and grinning at her. He had abandoned his coat, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up over his forearms to keep them from getting splashed with each generous pour. Danny never stinted on the good booze; it was one reason the Nightingale had so many regulars.
The nickname made Vivian smile, since he so rarely used it with her anymore. Once he had flirted happily with nearly every woman at the bar. But he had left most of that behind when he and Florence married, even if he was still generous with what he knew all too well was a killer smile. Vivian approved—she’d have been angry if he gave her sister a kiss each night and left to make eyes at every pretty girl who crossed his path. But he had first called her kitten the night Bea brought her to the Nightingale, nervous and determined to pretend that she wasn’t. It was still nice, from time to time, to remember that he had been her friend first.
But that didn’t stop her from leaning closer and fixing him with a serious stare. “You know what I mean. I need to talk to her.”
“About…?”
Vivian raised her brows, and Danny grimaced. “It’ll have to wait; she’s chatting up one of our suppliers downstairs.” He lowered his voice. “The guy who runs our whiskey got arrested last night. Stupid of him. Never skimp on your bribes.”
“That’s a problem, yeah?” Vivian asked.
Danny waved one hand as though waving away her concern. “He’ll be out after the weekend. We just need to make sure we’re not short until then. So you’ll have to wait until—”
A sudden crash and a loud curse made them and everyone else crowding around jump, all of them turning to see what had happened.
“It’s fine,” the second bartender declared through gritted teeth, clutching a rag against one hand. Around him lay the shattered remains of the glasses he had tried too late to catch.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Danny said, tossing a towel over his shoulder and striding down the bar. “No, I don’t mean pick up the glass,” he added impatiently. “Go get yourself cleaned up and make sure you don’t need a doctor. If you do, Benny or Saul will take you. Go on.” He gave the bartender a nudge toward the bar flap. “We’re fine here, and we sure as hell don’t need you bleeding all over the place. Nothing to see, folks,” he added in a louder voice, smiling at the customers who were crowding around. “Give me half a sec to get things cleaned up and we’ll make everyone’s drink a double.”
Vivian wasn’t listening to him; her eyes were fixed on the rag wrapped around the bartender’s hand as he scooted out of the room. It was slowly turning red from the cut on his hand, and the sight of it was too much like the memory of Huxley Buchanan lying on the floor. It took her a moment to snap herself back to the present and realize Danny was saying her name.
“Viv!” he said again as he finished dumping the dustpan full of shattered glass in the trash can and wiping down the bar. “Get back here.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” He lifted the bar flap and gestured at her impatiently. “I need an extra set of hands. Grab that bottle of gin and two coupes. French Seventy-Fives for that good-looking couple on your left.” He winked at the customers as he said it, and they preened at the compliment even as he was turning toward the next man in line. “Now, sir, what’s your poison?”
Vivian grabbed the bottle of champagne that was chilling under the bar and set it next to the glasses, then picked up the gin again. “How much—”
Danny didn’t wait for her to finish. “Just count to three while you pour and top it off with as much champagne as will fit,” he called. “It’s an art, not a science.”
“Make it five instead of three,” one of the waiting men suggested, and the other people crowding around the bar laughed.
Vivian laughed along with them, even though her hands were shaking with nerves and memory both. But she focused on the task in front of her, glad for the distraction and more than a little pleased to discover how much she had picked up from the other side of the bar as Danny called out instructions for the next round of drinks.
That was where Honor found her.
Vivian didn’t see her at first; she didn’t look up until a soft voice drawled, “I didn’t know I hired a new bartender.”
Vivian nearly dropped the bottle of rum she was holding; she caught herself just in time, sliding it across the bar to Danny. He stopped it with a flourish while Honor leaned against the bar with one elbow, watching them.
The other bartender had come with Honor, and he bumped Vivian’s shoulder as he took his place behind the bar once more. “Thanks for the help, Viv,” he said as he snagged a bottle of gin, the bandage wrapped around his hand not seeming to slow him down at all.
“You bet,” Vivian said. But she kept her eyes fixed on Honor as she ducked out from behind the counter without bothering to lift the bar flap. “You got a minute?”
Honor studied her; from the wary look in her eyes, it was clear that she realized it wasn’t a casual question. “You on a break, pet?”
The question felt like a slap, and Vivian sucked in an angry breath. Honor always had time for her employees, even on the busiest nights. It was one of the reasons they were so loyal to her. “No,” Vivian said, trying to keep her voice calm. “But I need to talk to you.”
Honor hesitated, then shook her head. “It’s a busy night,” she said, turning away.
Vivian caught her arm, pulling her a few steps away from the dance floor, closer to an out-of-the-way corner. She didn’t want to make a scene—that would be bad for everyone—but she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “Seems I should have given my condolences last time we talked,” she said, her voice low and sharp. “Funny you didn’t mention it at the time. Any particular reason?”
Honor had gone completely still, her face at its most impassive and unreadable. “It wasn’t your business,” she said softly, easing her arm out of Vivian’s grip. But there was an edge to her voice, like one instrument off-key in an otherwise perfect performance.
She was hiding something. And she was trying to warn Vivian away from asking more.
Vivian ignored the warning. “Like hell it wasn’t. You gonna tell me what’s going on?”
“Nothing is—”
“Or am I going to make a scene right here?”
“That would be unwise.” The warning in Honor’s voice was even sharper.
“Your call then,” Vivian said. She didn’t look away, and at last, Honor nodded, a barely perceptible jerk of her chin. She turned on her heel and walked toward the back hall.
Vivian glanced at Danny, who wasn’t the only person at the bar watching the quiet confrontation. “Back in a jiff, pal,” Vivian called, flashing him a smile that was all for show. He gave her a jaunty smile and a salute in return, and the small performance was enough to send the few curious onlookers back to their drinks and their dancing partners. But Vivian could see the worry in Danny’s eyes as she hurried after her boss.
Honor was already vanishing from sight up the stairs. Vivian wasn’t sure anymore whether she was supposed to follow. But she did anyway, her heart pounding with every step. The door to Honor’s office was on the landing halfway up; a second door, which was usually locked, led to the apartment rooms upstairs where Honor often stayed. To Vivian’s relief, the office door stood open for her.
She still paused at the threshold, a knot of anxiety clenching in her stomach. She didn’t know what she was about to learn, but things were already strained with Honor. Was it worth making them even worse?
She didn’t have much of a choice. Not if she wanted to find out what was going on. Not if she wanted to save her own skin.
Vivian closed the door behind her, watching as Honor, who was behind the desk and staring toward the room’s one window, stiffened at the quiet sound. She wasn’t admiring the view—the window faced the brick wall of the building next door, barely visible in the darkness. But she didn’t turn around.
“You sure you want to do this?” Honor asked. There was an emotion in that honey-and-smoke voice that made Vivian pause. It was the sound of pain. But that could mean a hell of a lot of things, and Vivian wasn’t the sort of girl to take anything for granted.
“I deserve answers, and you know it,” Vivian said firmly. “Why didn’t you tell me he was your dad?”
“We… weren’t close,” Honor said at last, each word sounding like it was carefully considered and turned over before being offered out loud. “How’d you find out?”
“Do I owe you anything here?” Vivian crossed her arms, glaring at Honor’s back.
“No.” Honor sighed as she turned around at last. She leaned back against the windowsill, her weight resting on her hands as she gave Vivian a regretful look. “You weren’t supposed to find out.” She shook her head. “Should have remembered you have a knack for digging up secrets.”
“I was at the house yesterday,” Vivian said quietly, almost resentfully. It was still hard for her to say no to Honor, even when she desperately wanted to. She didn’t want to make trouble for Bea, so she settled on the other explanation that Honor would believe. “Hattie Wilson set me up to listen in. Seemed like an interesting group.”
Honor had sucked in a sharp breath at Mrs. Wilson’s name, coming forward half a step, her casual posture gone. “Vivian, she’s not the sort of woman you want to be owing.”
“I know that,” Vivian snapped. “But right now, she’s not the one who’s lying to me.”
“I didn’t lie, pet. Not this time.”
“It was a lie of omission, and you know it.” Vivian clenched her hands into fists to steady herself. Lifting her chin, she met Honor’s eyes. Once, she had thought she could drown in those eyes. But Honor had made it clear she’d never choose Vivian over anything else in her life. “You should have told me.”
Honor didn’t answer, either to agree or argue. Instead, she sighed again and bent down to open a drawer in her desk. Two heavy-bottomed glasses landed in front of her, followed by the bottle of whisky that she always kept on hand. It was good stuff, too, direct from Canada, no chance of it being watered-down homebrew or dyed moonshine. That wasn’t how Honor did business.
Vivian accepted the glass Honor poured for her, glad to have something to do with her hands. But she didn’t say anything, letting the silence stretch while Honor poured her own glass and turned it in slow circles on the polished wood of the desk.
Vivian took a fortifying gulp of her drink. “Tell me about your father.” Then, a sudden thought occurring to her, she changed her question. “No, tell me about your sister first. Was he her father too?”
She could see the stillness that sank over Honor, shoulders tense beneath her crisp white shirt. “My sister?”
“You told me once that you had a sister,” Vivian said. She half wanted to take back the question; instead, she barreled on recklessly. “She mattered to you. And I’ve got a feeling she matters now.”
“She’s dead now,” Honor countered, her voice empty of emotion.
That bleakness tugged at Vivian’s heart. What would it be like to say those words about Florence? She wanted to reach out, to lay her head against Honor’s shoulder.
She steeled herself against the impulse. “So you mentioned,” she said. “I was sorry to hear it then, and I’m sorry to hear it now. But you owe me more than that.”
Honor took a drink from her own glass, her gaze going past Vivian. “Yes, Huxley Buchanan was her father too. And I’m sure you can guess he wasn’t there while we were growing up. Or after. He wasn’t interested in babies, so he didn’t hang around once we were on the way. My sister and I were raised by our mother. He did send us money sometimes. But it was never enough.”
“And your occasionally criminal childhood?”
The question surprised a short laugh out of Honor. “My what?”
“When you helped me break into the dressmaking shop last summer. You said you’d had an occasionally criminal childhood.”
“I did.” Honor stared into her glass as if she were seeing something else entirely. “Ma could never quite get by on her own, so she always had a fella around. They usually came and went like clockwork, but one of them stayed for a bit, and he took a shine to me. Got me to help on a job or two. Lookout, mostly. But he’d send me into a spot if they needed someone small. He was the one who taught me to pick locks.”
“You ever get arrested?”
“Twice,” Honor said, smiling wryly. “Second time, I was eighteen, and Ma couldn’t afford to get me out. So I had them call my father.”
Vivian sucked in a breath. “What did he do?”
“He bailed me out,” Honor said quietly. “Or, his lawyer did. He wouldn’t be seen coming down to a station in that part of town. But I think he’d softened toward us a bit by then.” She hesitated, then added, “He’d had more kids with his first wife. Two boys. Made him rethink a few things, though it didn’t change much.”
They were both quiet for a moment. “And your sister?” Vivian asked, still certain that there was some connection there. “Did she have childhood criminal tendencies, too?”
“No.” Honor shook her head firmly. “Not her. I wouldn’t have allowed it.”
“What was her name?” Vivian asked, unable to help her curiosity.
“My sister?” Honor asked, looking surprised by the question. When Vivian nodded, her face softened. “Stella. Her name was Stella.”
“Was she younger than you?”
“Barely. We were twins.”
“Twins?” Vivian stared at her. It was impossible to picture two women like Honor in the world. But maybe they’d been nothing alike. “You ever going to stop being full of surprises?”
Honor laughed, a short, humorless sound. “I would have liked to, for your sake,” she said quietly. “Don’t know if that’s possible now.”
Vivian felt her face growing hot and looked away, taking another sip to buy herself a moment. “So. Honor and Stella Huxley. As a reminder to him, I’m guessing? Or was your mother just trying to embarrass him?”
Honor shook her head, her expression wry and resigned. “Not just the Huxley part of it. My entire name was meant to make him feel guilty. Honor, right? As in, where is yours?”
“Oh.” Vivian couldn’t help her choked laugh. “That’s… melodramatic.”
“And then some.”
For a moment they were smiling at each other, both forgetting or ignoring what had brought them there. But it didn’t last. Honor looked away first, her expression growing shuttered once more. “Stella died in ’19.”
“Influenza?” Vivian said. She wasn’t surprised when Honor nodded. Honor and her mother hadn’t been the only ones to lose someone that awful year. Vivian shivered, remembering how the disease had torn through the close quarters of the orphan home, claiming young kids and aging nuns alike. “Did Buchanan try to help her then, at least?”
Honor shook her head. “He was traveling. I think he would have—he never came to see us, but I think for that, he would have. But Stella was gone before he could get back.”
Vivian took a sharp breath. Was it as simple as that—a loved sister dead, the father who could have helped her gone? “What about your mother?”
“Ma got sick when Stella did,” Honor said quietly, not looking away from Vivian’s eyes. “She never recovered.”
The pain that flashed across Honor’s face was so stark it made Vivian catch her breath. “Did you think it was his fault?”
The stillness settled over Honor again, a moment of wariness that came and went so fast that Vivian wondered if she had imagined it. Her jaw tightened. “It was his fault. We were living in a miserable, crowded little place, and half our neighbors had it. It was no surprise that they caught it.” She was looking past Vivian as she spoke, as though she were seeing something beyond the world she had built for herself, the office where she was always in control. “If he’d cared enough to raise us, we’d never have ended up stuck somewhere like that. Or we’d have at least had the money for a doctor.” Her eyes focused on Vivian at last. “So yes, pet. It was his fault, and he knew it.”
Vivian’s hands shook. “So, you blamed him for your sister’s death and—”
“No.”
“No?” Vivian didn’t bother hiding her skepticism. “You just said—”
“No,” Honor repeated, closing her eyes on a sigh. “There’s a difference between knowing it was his fault and blaming him for it. I was angry at him right after, sure. I’ll probably never stop being angry at him. But I couldn’t blame him. He had a good reason not to be there.”
“A good reason not to come when his daughter was dying?” Vivian asked, her own anger tight in her chest. “Even if he didn’t care much for you two, that’s still—”
“He was overseas when it happened,” Honor said quietly, opening her eyes. “Trying to find where his sons were buried in France.”
Vivian’s anger uncoiled like a load of bricks suddenly dropping into her stomach. Everyone knew someone who had died in the Great War, rich and poor alike. Everyone remembered the ache of that grief. “Both of them?”
The play of emotions across Honor’s face, so different from her usual coolness, was hypnotic. Vivian couldn’t tear her eyes away as Honor smiled sadly. “Both of them, poor bastard. Can you imagine being a father, knowing the boys you used to hold in your arms died scared and filthy in a trench, thousands of miles away from home?” She shook her head. “And then coming home to find your daughter—even if you weren’t the one to raise her—had died too? For all his money, sometimes I think Buchanan’s life was harder than mine. It had worse pain in it, at least.” She sighed again, then shrugged. And with the gesture, it was as if she was tucking those emotions away, her expression calm and controlled once more. She turned to pour herself another finger of whisky. “So no, I didn’t blame him. I still don’t.”
Vivian wanted so badly to believe her. But there had been that moment of stillness, of wariness, that she couldn’t quite ignore. She thought Honor was being honest. But even when Honor told the truth, she didn’t always tell all of it.
“Honor.” She hesitated, fingers gripping her glass so tight it made them ache. “Did you want him dead?”
Honor looked up to meet her eyes. “What did Hattie Wilson say to you, after she made sure you knew I was in that room?”
The question caught Vivian off guard enough that she wasn’t ready to hide her reaction. She could feel a hot blush rising to her cheeks even as she mentally scrambled for a reply. “Nothing,” she said, too quickly. Then she lifted her chin. Maybe Honor wouldn’t be honest, but she would. “She pointed out that you’re the one getting the best deal out of his death. Sounds like he left a whole lot behind, and most of it coming to you.”
“Vivian, pet.” Honor shook her head. “You know someone like Hattie Wilson always has a game she’s playing. You think she’s, what? Helping you out of the goodness of her heart?”
It was as much as Vivian had said to Hattie herself, but coming from Honor, it made her angry. “Of course she had her own reasons. That doesn’t make her wrong. Or are you gonna tell me you didn’t know he was leaving all that to you?”
Honor was silent so long Vivian didn’t think she was going to answer. “I’d see him, from time to time, since Stella’s death. He fronted me the money to open this place,” she said, gesturing broadly and earning a surprised look from Vivian. A little proudly, Honor added, “It only took me a year to pay him back. He did tell me last year that he was leaving everything to me. But that was right after he married the new Mrs. Buchanan, and I knew he was planning on bringing her son into his business. So.” Honor looked away to take a sip of her drink, then set it sharply down, as if she was eager to be done with the conversation. “I didn’t think he was serious.”
“You honestly expect me to believe that?” Vivian asked. Honor had sounded too composed, too sure of herself, in that meeting. She had known more than she was letting on.
“You honestly think I killed him?” Honor replied.
There was so much pain in the question that for a moment, Vivian felt like she couldn’t breathe. She had to haul in a shuddering breath, and they could both hear the effort it took. “I don’t want to,” she said, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat. She didn’t want to—but she hadn’t missed the fact that Honor hadn’t given her a clear no. “But God knows you’ve spent a long time giving me reasons not to trust you.”
Honor took a step forward. Her lips trembled before she pulled them back into a tight line. “Haven’t I given you reasons that you should, too?”
If she was acting, it was a damn good performance. But Vivian still took a step back toward the door. “You have,” she whispered. “But I’m gambling with my life, this time. If you want me to trust you, then help me. Tell me what you know.”
“I can’t, pet.” Honor’s jaw clenched. “I don’t know anything.”
Vivian nodded slowly. “Then that’s all there is to it.” She tried to smile, giving her head a little toss to flip her hair back, wanting to look like she didn’t care. “Guess it’s time for me to get back to work, then.”
“Vivian—”
But she was already out the door. No matter how much she wanted to believe Honor was telling her the truth, Vivian couldn’t ignore Hattie Wilson’s voice in the back of her mind.
You know who gained the most from his death. And you know she’s ruthless enough to set up someone else to take the fall for her.
She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t see the person waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs until a hand shot out and grabbed her arm. Vivian stumbled, too surprised even to yell, as she was yanked backward.
“Get ready to run,” Bea whispered, pulling Vivian into a corner and away from the door to the dance hall. “We’re about to be raided.”