Chapter 5 The Vanishing Ladies
The Vanishing Ladies
Upon first seeing her, Cora assumes she is a mirage, a trick of the light, just like Pepper’s ghost. Or else an angel, with
her white-blonde hair, smart fur-lined coat, and matching wide-brimmed hat, descended from on high to the hellish bustle of
Cora bursts out of the dingy lobby and into the cold, late afternoon air like a child rushing toward a Christmas tree.
“You came for me.” Cora longs to wrap her arms around the woman but doesn’t dare.
“Whether I leave with you remains to be seen.” Alice archly looks over her shoulder. A few paces down the road, two of Prospero’s
burly crewmen guard the show’s caravan of props, while another hefts Dinah’s many pieces of luggage toward the back. “Not
the safest place to talk.”
“Perhaps the lobby?” As soon as Cora suggests it, though, she winces. “Although my fellow stagehand, Maeve, will be down at
any moment.”
Alice nods down the road, toward the river in the distance, sparkling blue between the rows of dilapidated tenements. “Walk with me.”
Cora folds her coat tighter around her waist and sets out with the regal woman. Past the line of desperate street vendors
shouting into the crowded streets from their wooden carts, the sagging front stoops, the elevated Ninth Avenue line rumbling
over it all like a gloomy thunderstorm.
“Charming place,” Alice muses.
A gust of frigid wind blows off the water as they turn the corner. Cora tries not to react. This conversation may well be
her audition, after all, and instinct tells her that this cunning, ruthless woman beside her might consider shivering a weakness.
“Believe it or not, this is quite nice compared to where we stayed in Philadelphia,” Cora says. “Although I believe one of
the buildings down the road from the Hopper is called Hell’s Kitchen. And there was some sort of squabble between street gangs
transpiring when I arrived in the wee hours this morning, but they hardly noticed m—”
“Now that we have some privacy, I think it’s best to discuss next steps,” Alice interrupts. She has dropped the accent, at
least, but still cuts an intimidating figure, looming over Cora with her perfect posture.
“Yes. Right. Next steps.” Cora nods. “I’m ready. And have some suggestions. Some ideas, rather, given what I overheard between
you and Mr. McAllister. I’ve been running plays on my own, you know, for a while, and—”
“A while?” A faint smile lifts Alice’s lips. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.” Cora tries to ignore Alice’s eye roll. “I’m not claiming to have pulled any big jobs, but I’m a quick study,
and I’ve long thought about—”
“I’m not interested in your thoughts.” Alice purses her lips as they sidestep two young men quarreling in the street.
She takes Cora’s elbow swiftly and pulls her along.
“I have a very discreet, specific need and believe that you might be able to fulfill it. I expect you to do exactly as I ask, without hesitation, objection, or embellishment. If you are so willing, we can continue this conversation. If not, it looks as though your troupe is minutes from embarking on yet another magical adventure. So which is it to be?”
Again, Cora resists the urge to bristle, this time from Alice’s chilly tone. So she is expected to play a lackey once more,
a mindless minion to a greater star. Not exactly the type of angle or experience she was hoping for when she solicited this
woman as a mentor.
Then again, given the circles this confidence woman moves within, Cora suspects she’ll get everything she wants in the end—the
money, her farm, a real future. Besides, who’s to say Cora can’t work to earn the woman’s trust, just as she once hoped to
do with Prospero? After all, there is always room for upward mobility, for growth.
Cora nods. “I am so willing.”
“Good.” Alice turns her attention forward, setting a new pace, as determined and brisk as a military general. Cora has to
scramble to keep up with her. “The game I’ve begun, and that you have now entered, is already fully laid out. The rules. The
players. The strategy. So it’s best that you simply listen from here on out. Mr. McAllister and I have recently concluded
the first stage, establishing credibility—”
“With whom, exactly?” Cora interjects, genuinely curious.
Alice glares her way. “I will get to that.”
Cora mimes locking her mouth up tight, resisting her impatience. “Right. Sorry. Simply listening now.”
“Do you recall the name I went by at the party, when you found Mr. McAllister and me conversing in Mrs. Witt’s sitting room?”
Cora stares at her blankly. “Oh, understood—now it’s time to speak. Yes, the duchess, Grand Duchess Marie of . . . Wertingpark?”
“Goodness, no. That sounds like the title of a half-rate dime novel. Württemberg,” she corrects, with caustic emphasis. “A small Germanic principality, still sovereign, with its own nobility and crown,
which has tragically found itself in economic and political turmoil since joining the German Empire.” Alice adjusts her elegant
hat, protecting her face against the cold as they turn another corner. “Our nation of Württemberg . . .”
Cora marks that “our” with a surprised blink but keeps her mouth shut.
“. . . is extremely rich in a very valuable natural resource. Emerald mines, to be exact, which are scattered across Württemberg’s topography—and which were
unfairly and secretly pledged as an incentive in the brokering of Germany’s recent treaty with Austria-Hungary and Italy.
Our king, Charles I, wildly unpopular with the people, failed to protect our great nation by not only capitulating to this
treaty but also by allowing our mines and other assets to be ruthlessly pillaged by these new supposed allies.”
Alice waits a moment to continue as they edge around a bustling fruit cart.
“Understandably, this has led to a growing national resistance, helmed by my brother, Wilhelm Karl Paul Heinrich Friedrich, the grand prince and current heir to the throne. I believe, in my very soul, that with a little financial help from our American friends, we will gain Württemberg’s independence—but all of this has made us reconsider the future, you see, including the management of our most valuable resource.
Perhaps it is time to join the modern age.
Allow a select number of trusted foreign investors to join the efforts of our sovereign-backed mining company—”
“Quick question. Only one at present, promise.” Cora winces. “This Württemberg . . . is it real? I’ve never heard of it.”
Alice stares at Cora as if she’s grown a second head.
“Yes,” she says evenly.
Cora feels her cheeks warm, even in the cold. “I just wasn’t sure where the truth ends and the con starts.”
“Please tell me you are following this. The nation, the treaty, King Charles, even the recently widowed Prince Wilhelm, all
real. We have created a fictional sister, played by yours truly, who is helping the prince’s fictional national resistance to protect Württemberg’s entirely fictional emerald mines, which we are going to posit as a discreet, early investment opportunity to select New York families in order
to rob them blind. Yes?”
Cora swallows hard. “Ah yes. Got it. Crystal clear—I mean, right as rain.” She ignores her jumping pulse. She is game for
this kind of subterfuge, is she not? A detailed, mindful game, with high stakes and great rewards. She simply needs to get
up to speed. “If we could just go over the bit about the sovereign-backed mining company—”
“There’s no need for that at present.” Alice closes her eyes. “You will be playing the role of my cousin—my sweet, simple cousin, I’m thinking now, who knows very little about economics or the inner workings of Württemberg mining. All you’ll need
to do is look and act the part while Mr. McAllister and I work our targets and secure their pledges to invest.”
“The part,” Cora repeats, “the part of—”
“A Württembergian emerald heiress.”
Cora shakes her head. Coraline O’Malley, an emerald heiress.
Hardly a backstage gig, as suspected. No, it sounds as though Cora will be on the front lines of this endeavor. This could
be quite satisfying. In truth, she cannot think of a more rewarding game, infiltrating the smart set by proving them foolish,
waltzing right into their showy parties and fleecing them. Things are coming together indeed.
“The trouble is,” Alice goes on, “this sort of scheme is finite. These marks, as insulated as they are in their Manhattan,
upper-crust world, are also quite resourceful and well connected. Mr. McAllister and I estimate we have the span of one spring
social season to lock in our targets and realize our aims. Our endgame—their investments—must be attained by the conclusion of the social calendar, with the first of May as our closing date. And I am not leaving New
York without achieving what I’ve come for.”
“And where exactly did you come from?” Cora ventures. “Was I right about Upstate New York?”
Alice’s eyes narrow, as if to physically lock her mind up tight.
Cora opts for a shrug over a smile. “I figure I should know a little bit about the person I’m working for. Beyond all the
lies, that is.”
She watches Alice consider. Then: “Poughkeepsie.”
Cora nods. Presses her luck further. “Some grand mansion in town, I assume.”
“A boardinghouse. Can we get back to the matter at hand?”
“Right, of course.” Cora nods smartly. “Who are our targets?”
“Five families, some members of which you may have already been exposed to, but we will cover them in detail, and in due course,” Alice says, stepping carefully around a large pile of horse manure steaming on the walk.
“All you need to know right now is that they are part of high society, including the nouveau riche, the type who hold tightest to their newfound wealth and power and thus who need to be approached extremely carefully.”
The nouveau riche. Robber barons, she’s heard them called. Steel and railroads. Banks. Not Ross & Calhoun, those devils, but exactly the same ilk.