Chapter 5 The Vanishing Ladies #2
“You will be staying with me, your elder cousin,” Alice continues, “and after your long sea journey, you are quite eager to
join the season’s festivities here in New York. You’ve been studying abroad, perhaps in England. I’ll teach you a Württemberg
accent; the British influence will explain why it differs slightly from mine. You have a good ear. Hopefully you’ll prove
as skillful a mimic.”
Cora opens her mouth to enthusiastically agree, perhaps even to attempt a posh British lilt, but is spared the effort by Alice
plodding onward.
“Following the tragic death of your father, the king’s exchequer, who secretly supported the resistance—”
“My fath . . . Um. All right. I—”
“Your mother has decided to send you to me, safe from potential repercussions here in America, where perhaps you may also
meet a suitable husband. Since unfortunate circumstances have forced me to these shores as well, we are in great sympathy
with each other, you see. There could be no better mentor for you.”
Cora is more inclined to agree than ever. She nods.
Alice leans forward. “I’ll introduce you to society. The dinners, the balls. At these events you’ll help us gain access to one particularly elusive mark and draw him into the emerald scheme.”
“And then what?”
“And then we’re golden until the first of May, at which point all our preparations will coalesce into one glorious confidence
game. Then we’ll go our separate ways as far wealthier individuals. Where you go and why is entirely up to you.”
Cora nods again, exhaling, as they round the block once more, the Hopper House’s stodgy entrance now coming back into view.
Long Creek Farm has never felt so attainable, so inevitable.
“Oh, and Cora?” Alice takes her arm, pulling her back slightly. “I hope it goes without saying that if you breathe a word
about this to anyone . . .” She smiles, although the expression is neither warm nor charming, as Cora had assumed it might
be. It’s curling, wicked, with far too much tooth. “I’ll ensure you truly disappear.”
Cora deflects that clearly genuine threat by glancing at the doors. “Well then. I suppose I should get my belongings. Am I
to assume we are to start right away?”
“Right away, as in immediately.” Alice gently guides her in the opposite direction, gesturing toward a hansom cab parked under
the elevator line across the road.
“Wait, I need to . . .” Cora sighs. “I have some money. It’s in a safe place, stowed in my luggage. It isn’t much, but it’s
a start, to buy my farm, you see, and I—”
“One hundred fifty? Maybe two?”
The correct number is one hundred eighty-nine dollars, but Cora has to assume Alice’s question was rhetorical.
“It’s imperative to cut ties immediately, as goodbyes will only prompt explanations as to where you’re going and what we’re about to do.” Alice lifts her chin. “I assure you, you’ll have five thousand times that amount when this is through.”
Five thousand times. Meaning her cut is . . . one million dollars? Cora laughs incredulously. “And I’m just meant to take your word for that?”
“I’m not going to draw up a legal contract, if that’s what you’re asking,” Alice says crisply. “You requested that I teach
you. That is going to require a leap of faith. Are you prepared to jump?”
She supposes Alice makes a point. Cora nods.
As consolation, when they set off, she keeps her eyes trained on that flat expanse of water tucked between the long rows of
shanties in the distance—beyond all the filth and squalor, the promise of something far bigger and brighter than even this
city can contain.
Alice remains silent as they ride across town, which is just as well—more time for Cora to gape at the homes and mansions
growing in increasing proportion as they inch toward Fifth Avenue. The iconic street itself feels like another world from
the one she left, all tall, majestic buildings and shining horse-drawn carriages, frilly ladies and well-dressed gentlemen
strolling on either side of the road, as if they have nowhere to be but part of a perpetual parade, fashionably whiling away
the early evening. This is her new show, Cora supposes, her chance to perform front and center on a real stage, although she
can still hardly believe it.
She finds her mind drifting back to her prior days on the road, her old gig, the troupe, Prospero, Dinah, and Maeve.
Well, mainly Maeve. She pictures the kindly older woman now, stammering possible explanations to Prospero about where Cora could have gone.
Pleading with Dinah to convince the boss to wait for her, just a while longer.
Maeve is likely worried sick about her, fearing the worst, as she tends to do.
Cora shifts in her seat, trying to get comfortable with this unfortunate ramification. If Cora ever wants to set foot on Long
Creek Farm again, she is going to need to be as merciless, and single-minded, as the men were who stole it in the first place.
She will make it right with Maeve one day. Find her, somehow, when this whole Württemberg scheme is through.
The carriage stops in front of a well-kept townhome on the corner of Third Avenue and Thirty-Eighth Street. It’s quite nice,
actually. High-end.
“You live here?”
Alice arches an eyebrow. “New York is its own illusion.”
She exits the carriage without further explanation.
Frugal with her words, Cora supposes. Let’s hope that frugality doesn’t extend to anything else.
As Cora climbs down after her, she gets a better look at the place, realizing it isn’t one home but several—a manse divided
into different units, different flats. Though a step up from a boardinghouse in . . . Poughkeepsie, Alice had said? Perhaps
she and her new mentor really aren’t so different—at least, not in all respects.
Cora stops when her gaze falls upon a young man lingering on the front stoop, dressed in a crisp, multipiece suit and a derby
hat. Smoking a cigarette, as if he owns the place. He’s tall, Cora notes, with even features, striking blue eyes . . . Quite
handsome, actually. Almost distractingly so. His smile rises when he sees Alice accompanied by Cora, one eyebrow quirking.
Alice spins around, cursing under her breath, dragging Cora backward a few steps.
“Who is that?” Cora whispers.
“That is no one,” Alice mutters. “A nuisance.”
Cora steps forward. “Well, can’t I—”
“You cannot do anything. You’re not ready. He’s a newspaper man—and a particularly dogged one, if you must know.” Alice glances over her
shoulder, then sighs. “Wait here by the carriage and do not say a word.”
Cora does as she’s told. Still, she attempts to glean whatever terse words are exchanged between them. The man trots off with
only a smirk and a tip of his hat before she can parse much of anything.
Interesting. She makes a mental note to ask again about him later. A woman posing as a fictional grand duchess would hardly welcome the
attention of the press. Then again, much of Alice’s con seems based in truth (if Cora was rightly following any of it).
She hurries forward, trailing Alice up two flights of stairs, and into a meticulously furnished apartment: mahogany bookshelves
in the entryway, a homey sitting room with a lovely view of the tree-lined street below. And then all the way down a central
corridor and into a tiny back bedroom, one containing no more than a bare cot, a small washbasin, and a decidedly less lovely
view of a manure-speckled alley.
“This will be yours while we prepare. Luckily, we had it ready. It’s sat empty these past months, surplus to our needs.”
Cora nods, trying not to show her disappointment. Though what did she really expect at this juncture, a Württembergian castle
with an emerald keep?
Alice watches her closely, eyes narrowing. “The others have taken the servants’ quarters, but I’m sure they’d be happy to trade for a room with a window if you’d rather lodge near the kitchen with them.”
So much for hiding her reaction.
“This is perfect,” Cora says. Then: “The others? Who—”
“My cook, Dagmar, and my housemaid, Béatrice.” Alice pronounces the latter in the French way. “And in case you’re wondering,
yes, they know all about our plans and have their own parts to play. Though not as showy a part as yours.”
That gets Cora’s heart racing again.
“The season is already in full swing, I take it, considering last night’s affair?” she says. “I’ll need some fine dresses,
not that that’s a priority, obviously. Just building out our checklist. Emeralds too, I suppose?” Cora swallows, attempting
to recall the deluge of details Alice rattled off on their walk. “And if I could just get a little bit more detail on my backstory—”
“Plenty of time for that,” Alice says. “The parties won’t begin in regular fashion again until late January, starting with
the Patriarch’s Ball.”
“January?” Cora says, appalled. “But that’s months away. What am I meant to do in the mean—”
“You are to stay with me. Here. Hidden until you’re ready.”
“But . . . I am ready.” She spreads her arms impatiently. “Ta-da!”
Alice lets out a startled laugh. It’s a surprisingly infectious sound.
“We ?ave a guest, Your Grace?”
Cora turns to see a petite woman in the doorway, attired simply but immaculately in the dress of a housemaid. Her dark hair
is piled atop her head, and it strikes Cora that she might be quite pretty if not for the jagged scar that mars the length
of one cheek.
“Ah, Béatrice.” Alice’s entire body seems to soften at the sight of her. “You can dispense with the formalities. This is Cora. She’s one of us now.”
Cora feels an unfamiliar warmth spread through her at the sound of those words. One of us. She never had a true family, not really. Her brother left when she was just a girl, and the relationship between her and
Da always felt more obligatory than fond.
She shakes her head. Come now, Cora, don’t be a fool. This is a job, same as the troupe was. It is silly, even dangerous, to think of this arrangement as anything else.
That shrewd thought is only further underscored by the sight of Alice’s second servant.
Dagmar is easily six feet tall, too wide to fit through the doorframe, and as solid and serious as a railway car. She eyes
Cora with open dubiousness.
“One more for dinner, Dagmar,” Alice says, breezing past them all into the hallway. “She’ll be with us until our project concludes.”
“Will thees affect our cut?” Dagmar asks. Her voice is as deep and Germanic as Cora expected. Dagmar’s eyes dart sharply to
Cora’s, as if daring her to smirk.
“Our new friend’s contribution in firmly securing our fifth investor will ensure even larger cuts for all of us,” Alice says,
prompting a grunt of approval from Dagmar. “If, that is, she proves amenable to instruction.”
“But that’s just it,” Cora sputters. “Instruction in what?”
“Everything,” Alice says, helpful as ever.
Béatrice smiles warmly, which sets Cora more at ease. “We shall need to turn you into a lady.”
“By January. A matter of months. There are infinitesimal ironclad rules governing this world, and any violation of them will mark you as a fraud, and by extension, the rest of us.” Alice straightens, prim as a schoolmarm.
“An early dinner and then to bed. Our lessons will begin promptly at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. ”
The three women size Cora up and down in a detached, circumspect way that makes Cora feel very much like chattel. Is there
something wrong? Does she have something on her face? She absently wipes her cheek.
Alice sighs. She turns to go, murmuring to Béatrice in a voice just loud enough for Cora to hear, “You should rest too. I’m
afraid they’re going to prove very long days.”