Chapter 21 Nobody, a Nuisance
Nobody, a Nuisance
Coraline O’Malley is acting decidedly odd. Alice watches her warily from across the breakfast table as she stirs milk into
her coffee.
For one thing, her skin’s gone gray. Alice had assumed Cora had taken to her bed all of yesterday out of pique at what Alice
has demanded of her, but now she wonders whether an actual stomach ailment is to blame. When Béa laid out the platter of sausages
and poached eggs, Cora pushed back a bit from the table as if with revulsion. Now she sits nibbling the edges of a piece of
dry toast, furtively, like a mouse, her wide—now bleary—eyes darting to the front entryway every minute or so.
Alice clears her throat. “Expecting a visitor?”
Cora outright startles. “No. At least I hope . . . no, just. The morning papers.”
“They’ve arrived already.” Alice frowns, nodding toward the parlor, where she’d left them for later perusal.
Cora jumps from her chair, rattling the table. “Sorry. I . . . Just a moment.”
As the girl runs from the room, ostensibly desperate for the latest news headlines, Alice smiles in bewilderment. She attempts to share a look with Béatrice, but Béa has studiously avoided eye contact for days.
Which is all for the better, probably. Best to keep things strictly professional, cut and dry, uncomplicated—
Cora rushes back into the room, her cheeks freshly flushed. As she reclaims her seat at the table, blinking hard as if against
a wave of nausea, Alice peers aghast at her fingers, all of them smudged with newsprint ink. She’d admonish the girl to wash
her hands before eating, if she was planning to eat anything this morning.
“Anything interesting in the paper?” Alice asks casually.
The color leaves Cora’s cheeks again. “No. I . . . was, ah, looking for something. But it wasn’t in there. Perhaps tomorrow . . .”
That last bit said more to herself, with a look of swirling dread in her expression.
At the now-obvious scrutiny in Alice’s eyes, Cora blinks hard. “I thought they might have posted a society mention about what
went on at the Ameses’ ball. Or a formal engagement notice. Harry had mentioned he wanted to announce it as soon as possible.”
“Ah.” Alice sips. “And that concerns you because . . .”
“It doesn’t concern me.” There is a manic edge to Cora’s smile. “I’m excited, is all. To see my name in print. Even if it’s,
you know . . . not my real name.”
Curiouser and curiouser. The last time she and Cora spoke on this subject, Cora was as far from excited about an engagement
announcement as a young woman could possibly be.
Alice chooses not to press the point. She cuts her sausage with a smirk. “If your real name winds up in the papers, something
has gone terribly wrong.”
Cora lets out a shrill laugh, startling the knife out of Alice’s hand.
Alice draws a deep breath. “What has gotten into you today? Are you really that jittery over all this? Of all potential liabilities,
I did not predict in you a nervous disposition—”
“Nor should you.” Cora leans back in awkward imitation of a lady at ease, but Alice can see her gray skin breaking into a
sweat. “I’ve had some time to think, and it’s a fine plan, as you said. All of this is going brilliantly. It’s all going to
work out. It has to.”
Alice’s frown deepens into an incredulous grimace when the bell rings in the front entry, sending her rising from her seat.
“We’re not expecting Ward,” she murmurs to Béatrice, who turns to meet her eye at long last.
“Perhaps a message boy,” Béa says.
But when Béa opens the door, the person waiting there cuts rather a larger figure.
Cal Archer at least has the courtesy to remove his derby hat before barging inside.
Alice lets out a cry of outrage as the young man breezes past her into the parlor—as if he pays rent here.
“What are you doing?” she cries, trailing him closely.
“Warming up,” he says, rubbing his hands together by the lit stove. “Warming up to what I have to say to you, that is.”
Alice can feel her face purpling with anger. She lowers her voice to a fervent whisper, her eyes darting to the hall, assuring
herself no one is approaching. “How many times must I tell you not to come here? Anyone could have seen you come inside!”
Cal turns to face her, his own expression thunderous. “Oh, I was careful. Which is more than I can say for you.”
“You’re being thoughtless,” Alice hisses. “And keep your voice down.”
Cal doesn’t bother to whisper. “And you’re being heartless. How could you possibly sanction this? An actual marriage? Against
her will, against common decency—”
“How do you know it’s against her will?” Alice snaps. “How is this any business of yours?”
He waggles a finger at her. “Oh, don’t you play the ‘stay in your lane, I’ll stay in mine’ line with me. That might work on
some downtown fence or forger. Hell, it might even work with old McAllister, but not me. I know you far too well for that.”
Alice scoffs. “You say you know me? That is a bold claim.”
Cal points. “There. That’s it. This isn’t about clean lanes, not completely. You are punishing me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Alice turns away, waving her hand in exasperation.
“Maybe I deserve it. Hell, I know I do. But if you would only let me atone, Alice—let me in at all. Let anyone in!”
“I . . .” A hollow voice echoes from the hall. “You . . .” Cora stands on wobbling legs, staring between the two of them from
the doorway as if waking from a dream. “I think this time I’m actually going to . . .”
Cal rushes past Alice to Cora’s side, just as Béa steps into the room, ready to drag an armchair near. Between the two of
them, they ease Cora into a seat before a legitimate swoon can overtake her.
“Hiya, Béatrice.” Cal offers the maid a rueful smile. “Sorry to barge in without a proper hello.”
“A proper hello to you too.” Béatrice laughs. “Cup of tea?”
“I’d kill for one. You’re a saint,” he drawls, the idiot, then has the gall to call after her, “And I don’t suppose Dagmar’s made any of those spice cookies
lately?”
Alice turns away, pressing a finger against her temple to stave off the stress headache she can already feel building.
“He called you Alice,” Cora murmurs. “And your accent . . . You’re not . . . doing the accent.”
She shakes her head as if trying to clear it of dust.
Alice glares at Cal. He shrugs.
Alice rolls her eyes. “Fine. As you’re already apparently better acquainted than I had either expected or planned, I suppose
a formal introduction is in order. Cora, this is Calvin Archer. My brother.”
“Your bruh,” seems to be all Cora can say.
“Let’s lay it all out for efficiency’s sake,” Alice says.
Cal snorts. “Quite. Why waste time softening any blow?”
It’s lucky she’s so practiced at ignoring him. “He’s been a part of the plan from the beginning, as he was already well placed
as a feature writer at The Herald.”
Of all things, Cora is starting to look relieved. “So . . . you know?”
“There’s no Württemberg resistance movement, there are no emerald mines, there’s no duchess or prince—well, actually, the
prince is real,” Cal recites, fixing Cora with a gentle—one might even call it affectionate?—smile.
Alice leans forward, suspicious.
“I write it all up in the paper as fact,” he adds, “jeopardizing the core principles of my very livelihood, knowing full well
it’s a load of hooey. That, as of today, the only authentic elements of this plan of ours are a single Colombian emerald and
a marriage proposal.”
Cal whirls on Alice again, livid. She stalks away to stare out the window.
“One that you, apparently, intend to see through?” he goes on. “Ah, bless you.”
Alice glances back to see Béa’s brought him both tea and those spice cookies he asked for, the traitor.
“I don’t understand,” Cora says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Cal keeps his eyes fixed on his sister. “Because Alice asked me not to. She likes to keep things separate, you see. Clean.
You’re not the only pawn on the board, Cora. God forbid any of us get the full story. Only she can hold it all in her mind,
like Athena toying with us mere mortals.”
His voice has taken on a poetic tone. It’s too much. Alice picks up an embroidered pillow and chucks it at his head.
He swats it away. “Oh! Very mature!”
“But why did you talk to me?” Cora’s voice is so soft, Alice can hardly make it out. She’s never once seen the girl look so
vulnerable. “Wouldn’t it have been easier just to stay away?”
“I suppose it would have.” Cal frowns, considering the question seriously. Then he grins. “But not half as fun. It gets pretty
lonely out there, you know.” He nods to the street view. “Staying in my lane. I suppose I thought if my sister wouldn’t speak
to me, at least I could get little glimmers of how things were going for her through you.”
“So you used me.” Cora’s voice is flat, unreadable.
“I mean, perhaps, at first, but . . . then, no, no, that’s not what it was at all. I liked you. Still do. Quite a lot.”
Cal and Cora stare at each other in silence.
“You know what’s at stake here, Calvin,” Alice puts in quietly.
He turns back to her, his cocky smile wiped clean. “I do.”
He slumps, apparently chastened. Alice thinks for one blessed moment that he’s succumbed to the overriding logic of her strategy.
Then he stands. “But there’s got to be a better way, one that doesn’t involve throwing a lamb to the wolves.”
Alice snorts. “Harry Peyton is hardly a wolf.”
“I think . . . he’d be the lamb in this analogy,” Cora reluctantly admits.
“Listen, you’ve said your piece.” Alice sighs. “But we are running a risk having you in here for this long. Take your . . .
your spice cookies—”
“They are called pfeffernusse!” Dagmar shouts from all the way in the kitchen. Lord, the woman really does have ears like a bloodhound. “Not spice cookie.”
“Do what you’re best at, dear brother.” Alice wraps the pfeffernusse in a cloth napkin. “Pick a moment no one is watching and go.”
“Ouch.” Cal accepts the bundle with an unblinking glare, submits to Béatrice’s apologetic fetching of his hat and coat.
He bows to a still bewildered Cora, then draws a breath as if to speechify once again.
“Heaven’s sake, surely you can speed this up!” Alice snaps.
Cal whirls around. “That’s it. That’s what we’ll do.”
Utterly exhausted now, Alice flops onto the settee so ungracefully that even Cora’s eyes widen at the sight of it.
Cal hands Béatrice his coat and hat again, then strides to the fire to stoke it—an ominous sign of his intention to settle
in once more. “We’ll speed it up. All of it. What was it you told me, Allie-girl?”
“Allie-girl?” Cora mutters incredulously.
“It’s all coming together more quickly than you’d anticipated?” Cal’s eyes have lit up.
Alice blinks in protest. “By which I meant the marks. Getting them all in the same room and—”
“And now they’re all lining up to invest in the mining company. Isn’t that so, Cora?”
Cora sits up. “Well, yes, I think so. All but the Witts.”
“The Witts are interested,” Alice reluctantly admits. “Ward dropped a surreptitious mention over tea. Iris chased him out
the door, demanding to know more. The only one missing so far”—she stares meaningfully at Cora—“is Harold Peyton.”
“I don’t know Cora all that well yet,” Cal starts. Alice notes that yet in judgmental silence. “But something tells me she could wrangle an investment out of that Peyton kid by six o’clock on a
Sunday morning.”
“He did propose rather quickly,” Cora says, her expression brightening with hope. “I don’t think a pledge will be much of
a leap for him at this point.”
“Interesting,” Alice says. Also interesting is that her brother is gripping his teacup so tightly it looks like he might shatter
it. “So what are you suggesting?”
“We move it up,” Cal says, eagerly grasping onto the slight subject change. “The gem evaluations, the sting, all of it.”
Alice’s heart starts to race. “You mean before—”
“Before Easter, yes,” Cal says, glancing at Cora. “So our dear friend here doesn’t have to tie any knots.” He smirks. “With
him, anyway.”
“You do understand that carves our remaining timeline in half, putting investment day, what? Little more than a month from now?” Alice rises, walking the length of the room, processing it all. “And there’s still the matter of the embassy—”
“I may have an answer there too,” Cal says. “Chum of mine in the international beat says Finland can’t afford the rent on
Embassy Row anymore. I can put in a deposit—today, even. Not in my own name, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Alice repeats dryly. “You really are hell-bent on this, aren’t you?”
Cal meets Cora’s eyes. Something passes between them that Alice can’t decipher.
He turns back to Alice with a shrug. “Sooner we all get paid and get gone, the better, right?”
At long last, he takes that as a cue to exit.
Alice follows him to the door.
As he adjusts his hat, Alice reaches for his hand. Warmth fills her at his reaction to the gesture—so open-faced and earnest,
just as he was as a boy.
“You need to stay away from her now,” she says.
He winces. “I—”
“I don’t care what there may be between you. She has a job to do. And she can’t do it with you filling her head with nonsense.”
A muscle works in his jaw. After a moment he nods, buttons his coat, and goes.
And as Alice watches him leave, unnoticed by any onlookers on the sidewalk, she feels the loss of him as freshly as the day
he packed his bag and set out from Poughkeepsie with nary a look back.
But there’s no use in sentiment. Not unless you can leverage it to a greater cause.
“Cora,” she calls sharply, summoning the girl from the kitchen, where she’s apparently launched into an impromptu celebration over her potentially canceled nuptials, she and Béa both sitting atop the counter, emptying glasses of liqueur from a bottle Dagmar is still holding high.
“I’ve noticed you’ve got a particular skill with legerdemain. ”
“Béatrice?” Cora looks to the maid. “Care to translate?”
“I believe that in this context,” Béa says, “it means robbing someone. Without getting caught.”
“I’d like your guidance here, Cora,” Alice says lightly.
“Ah.” Cora’s face, already growing rosy with fresh hope, brightens a few watts more. “Right. Happy to oblige.”
“Let’s say you were at the Metropolitan Opera House and you needed to replace the necklace Mimi Vandemeer was wearing with
a fake. What would be your strategy?”
“Oh. Well, first, I suppose, we’d need to arrange to bump into her. Naturally, of course. Stage some kind of accident. We
should choose somewhere either completely solitary or chaotically crowded.” Cora’s eyes dart to Alice’s. “I do assume we can
drop the hypothetical now?”
Alice shrugs, caught. “A fair assumption.”
Cora grins. She straightens, hands clasped to her heart, sighing, “I’ll finally get to wear the opera gown!”
Alice has to turn quickly away to keep in a far-too-fond laugh.