Chapter 12 #2
“I’m sorry I was delayed, ma’am,” Kate says. “They haven’t left, I hope?”
“No. They’re waiting in your alcove.”
“I’ll get to it, then.” Kate glances at me. “This is my friend, Miss Jones. Miss Jones, this is Miss Mabel Cahill, the proprietress of this fine establishment. Could you please find her a table and a cup of tea, Mabel? Take it off my evening pay.”
“Certainly. Follow me, Miss Jones.”
Kate weaves through the tables toward the back of the room, then disappears into a candlelit alcove draped with deep-blue velvet.
I’m nervous without her at my side, but follow Mabel into the main dining area.
It’s been years since I’ve been to any sort of restaurant.
My eyes skate around the room, but I’m careful not to let my gaze linger on anyone for too long.
I pray my costume is successful enough to disguise my identity.
After my brief encounter with Arabella, I’m wary of public establishments.
“How long have you known Varina?” Mabel asks. She sits me at a table next to a small stage in the front corner, near the windows. “She’s never brought a friend with her before.”
“Oh, only a few weeks,” I say.
“Well, you’re welcome to come any evening she works.” Mabel smiles. “What sort of tea do you like, dear? We’ve just gotten a new shipment of oolong. It’s lovely, bright and fresh. Or we have coffee, if you prefer.”
“The oolong sounds delightful.”
“Milk and sugar?”
“Yes, please.”
While I wait, I try not to look too closely at the other patrons, many of them middle-aged matrons.
It’s the sort of bourgeois café my mother and her friends would frequent.
A place to see and be seen. Being seen is the last thing I want, so I lower my gaze and turn slightly toward the window.
I’m relieved when Mabel brings my tea, along with two warm scones.
I thank her and tuck in, the tea’s crisp bouquet a perfect counterpoint to the sugar-encrusted scones, which remind me of the ones Siobhan used to make.
Teatime was Papa’s favorite part of the day, and he’d always break his work to enjoy a full complement of pastries, jams, and biscuits and regale us with stories.
From the time he was a pup, Walter remained close at hand, eagerly awaiting any morsel we might drop.
It’s the simple, everyday things like this that I miss the most about my old life and my family.
I lift my teacup and drink to quell the pinch at the back of my throat and drown the nostalgic memories threatening to overtake me.
Now that survival isn’t my driving force, at least not as keenly, my mind has slowly been excavating my grief—examining it in my sleep.
My dreams are haunted by Rebecca. By Papa. Even by my little sisters, long dead.
A few minutes later, Mabel seats a pair of ladies at a table near mine.
I flinch. One of them is Arabella Meade—I recognize her hairstyle immediately, with its high topknot and cascading side curls.
I dip my chin, my wig swinging forward to hide my face.
She’s so close I can smell her perfume, a heady tuberose scent.
Thankfully, from this angle, she’d have to look over her shoulder to see me, but her companion has a full view of me, and I her, though I don’t recognize the young woman, who’s dressed in mourning clothes that match her solemn expression.
After they’ve settled in and ordered their tea, I hear Arabella ask how the young woman has been getting on. The temptation to eavesdrop is much too strong to resist, so I crane my neck forward, ever so slightly.
“Well enough. Considering.” The young lady’s lip quivers. Her voice is choked with emotion.
Arabella reaches out, places a hand over her companion’s. “These things take time.”
“I keep expecting her to come home. As if she’ll walk through the door at any moment. It’s like some horrible dream I can’t wake from.”
“I remember feeling that way about Eleanor. It isn’t right, is it?” Arabella sighs. “It’s terrible to lose a sister. Especially in the way you did.”
“The coroner said she didn’t suffer . . . but how can they know that for sure?”
“Try not to think like that, dear. Remember what a blessing she was to you in life, instead of thinking about her death,” says Arabella.
Arabella was always smooth and well spoken, knowing just the right things to say in any situation.
Her unruffled manner made her courtroom lies about me all the more believable.
Oh, how she hated me. And I never gathered quite why, apart from resenting my friendship with her sister, Eleanor.
But my dear friend tried to warn me, didn’t she?
Years before she died. Be careful of my little sister, Lil. She despises you behind her smile.
Arabella makes cooing sounds, patting the young woman’s arm as her face crumples and she sobs softly into her handkerchief. “Denise was always so proud of you. Your brothers, too.”
My ears perk. Denise. Might Arabella be talking about Denise George?
She was one of Rebecca’s friends as well.
If so, Arabella’s companion must be Denise’s younger sister, Alice, who was still a child the last time I saw her.
I recall the conversation I heard on the wharf the day I left for the marshes—the longshoreman admonishing his cohort to be cautious.
The well-to-do victim he spoke about might well have been poor Denise.
I pray Arabella’s penchant for gossip continues, my curiosity piqued.
“Did you see the papers this morning? The Daily Courier?” Arabella continues, just as I hoped.
“No, I didn’t,” says Alice. “I’ve been avoiding the news.”
“Well, they think the murderer is Lillian Carmichael.” At the sound of my name on Arabella’s tongue, I flinch, goose bumps prickling up my arms.
“How can that be?” Alice asks. “She’s dead.”
“Supposedly. But her grave was disturbed. The undertaker claims he heard strange sounds coming from their family mausoleum. And I saw her. Here in town. I know it was her, even though she was dressed like a street urchin. People are buried alive sometimes. I went to the City Guard and told them I saw her. There’s a reward, you know. Lillian is capable of anything.”
Arabella’s voice becomes a shrill, distant whine in my ears. Suddenly, the intimate café is too close. The air too warm. I do my best to keep my panic from registering on my face. Though my inclination is to flee, I must stay and listen to this conversation. I need to know how much Arabella knows.
“I remember Lillian and Rebecca,” Alice says. “Mama used to attend a sewing circle with their mother.”
“Our families were close for many years. I’ve never gotten over Becca’s death.” Arabella sighs, shifts in her chair. “Lillian was always jealous of Rebecca. And I’ll never forgive her for leading my sister astray. It still sickens me.”
What on earth is she talking about? I never led Eleanor astray, in anything.
“Were you very well acquainted with Marjorie Blanchard?” Alice asks.
I still. Why is she asking about Marjorie now?
“We met, a time or two,” Arabella says. “I found her rather blasé, but she was pleasant enough. She wasn’t happy in her marriage.
That much was obvious.” There’s a certain air of morbid glee in Arabella’s tone.
I’d forgotten just how much she relishes hearing about other people’s misfortunes.
It’s one of her least flattering traits.
“Well, we were in cotillion together, before she met her husband.” Alice looks from side to side and lowers her voice.
“I heard that when they found her, her throat was torn to shreds, as if some wild beast had gotten to her. That’s why they can’t have a proper wake.
It’s a blessing she had no children yet, at least.”
“Heavens.” Arabella raises her teacup. “That’s three now, including your poor sister. I’m frightened. Mama no longer wants me out after dark, even with a companion.” She glances out the window at the dusky sky, purple as a bruise.
“I don’t like the thought myself. It’s getting late. We’d better head home, hadn’t we?” Alice says. “Walk with me, as far as the park?”
“Of course, darling.”
They hastily finish their tea and leave, Arabella’s tailored merino skirt brushing my own as she passes.
She doesn’t spare me a glance. I contemplate their conversation.
At least it’s no longer a mystery whether Arabella recognized me and reported the sighting, although her comment about Eleanor is puzzling.
What was she implying? I must be very careful to avoid running into Arabella going forward.
My boyish disguise didn’t fool her. The best way to blend in with Charleston’s gentry is to be a part of Charleston’s gentry.
Kate is right. Mary Jones must become so completely enmeshed with me that she doesn’t stand out and no one can distinguish us.
And poor Marjorie. Younger than me but already widowed and now dead. Her father was a minor politician with a small rice plantation on James Island. I remember Marjorie being a quiet girl. An accomplished pianist and a graceful dancer. Pretty, with soft brown eyes and red hair.
Red hair.
The first victim—Sally—was a redhead as well. I pull on one of the reddish curls adorning my own head. Denise George was also a redhead. Is there some correlation? A niggle of unease runs through me. All three of them. Redheads. And Denise and Marjorie knew one another, at least tangentially.
Miss Mabel brings me a fresh cup of tea.
“Varina’s nearly finished with her final reading.
She’ll perform soon.” She glances around the room, which has grown quieter since our arrival.
Only a few tables remain occupied. “These murders are taking a toll on my evening business,” she says.
“Ladies are too frightened to be out after dark.”
“It’s terrible. I heard two of them remarking about it, just now.”
“Yes,” Mabel says, shaking her head. “I suppose I’ll need to begin closing earlier.”