Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel) (13 page)

She hardly knew how they made it out through the maze of passages into the cold night air, but once there she did feel slightly better. Tommy bent over her as she leaned against the post of a streetlight, her eyes half closed with misery. “Food,” he said. She shook her head, but he pulled her upright and propelled her a few steps down the street. “Come on, First Class, there’s a café right over there. Some eggs and bacon, that’ll fix you right up.”

When he guided her into the warm, steamy atmosphere of the café, the smells of frying meat and toasting bread made her stomach turn again, and she shuddered with nausea. Tommy, ignoring this, ordered platters of fried eggs and sausages, potatoes fried with onions, and stacks of thick brown toast. With the food in front of her, the sensation in her stomach steadied and transformed into a ravenous hunger. She took a piece of toast, then a bit of egg. The spinning of her head slowed. She ate a sausage, crisp on the outside and running with juice on the inside. Her head felt much clearer now, better than it had all evening. Coffee came, and she drank some, then took another piece of toast, swirling it in yellow egg yolk, downing it in three great bites.

Tommy watched her with amusement. “Where are you putting that, First Class? You’re as wispy as a grasshopper!”

Allison grinned at him and speared another sausage. She couldn’t stop herself. Her belly, quivering with sickness only twenty minutes before, began to feel tight and full, and it was a wonderful sensation. She finished her eggs and all the sausage on her plate. She took a third piece of toast and smothered it with jelly. Tommy had finished his meal and pushed his plate aside, but Allison fed herself until there was nothing left. A waiter in a dirty white apron took their plates without comment, and left them a bill scrawled on a slip of paper.

Tommy paid the bill carefully, counting out his change. When they were on their way out, he said, “Feeling better, aren’t you? I was right—you needed food!”

Allison tugged on her coat. “I guess so,” she said.

“You must have! You ate enough for two hungry sailors!”

“I—I’m sorry about that,” she said. Now that she had stopped gorging herself, the food in her stomach was growing heavy. Her belly felt distended, bulging against her chemise. She could still taste the richness of the sausages and the sweetness of strawberry jelly. Opposing sensations tumbled through her mind, pleasure and shame, relief and guilt. Her stomach, equally confused, began to rebel against its burden, rumbling and quivering, making her fear for what would happen next.

“Why be sorry?” Tommy cried, even as she swallowed a sudden, terrifying rush of saliva. “I love a girl who enjoys her grub!”

She looked up at him, suspecting he was making fun of her. His freckled face was wreathed in smiles, and his blue eyes danced with humor. His arm around her was warm and strong and friendly. He meant it, she thought. He really did. Nothing in her life had prepared her to expect such a thing.

She walked to the streetcar with one hand on her stomach and the other under Tommy’s arm, and she pondered the mystery.

 

Allison’s stomach had begun to churn in earnest by the time they climbed Aloha and reached Benedict Hall. She bade Tommy a hasty good night. He wanted to stay until she was safely in the back door, but she said in a shaking voice, “No, Tommy, you need to go. If I have to, I can knock, say I came down to the kitchen for something, then went out for a breath of air. If you’re here . . .”

Gallantly, he said, “I can hide in the bushes!” but she gave him a little push, and he sauntered away, walking backward, waving and grinning and promising to write her from Hollywood. When he was finally out of sight, she hurried through the garden on trembling legs, stumbling around to the back lawn. Her stomach quaked, and she wanted only to reach the shrubberies before the inevitable happened.

Allison hated throwing up. When she tried it that once with the spoon, it was disgusting and messy. She never wanted to do it again. It was no more pleasant now, but she couldn’t stop it. The muscles of her stomach clenched, saliva flooded her mouth, and everything she had consumed that night came rushing back. Her stomach seemed to turn itself inside out as she retched. Everything came up, and out, as she bent over the dry rosebushes and hoped no one was watching from the house.

When there was nothing left, she still gagged. She longed to go into the kitchen to rinse her mouth, to wash her face and scrub her hands, to get rid of all this embarrassment, but every time she started for the porch steps, her stomach clutched again. It seemed to go on forever, and she knew it was because her stomach was unused to so much food. She had done it all to herself, and the shame of that—the guilt over her unrestrained gluttony—made the whole thing worse. She hunched over the flower bed, her hands on her knees. Tears of weakness streamed over her cheeks.

“Allison? What’s happening? Are you ill?” It was, of all people, Cousin Margot.

Allison couldn’t prevent the whimper of surprise that escaped her. She was caught. There would be a fracas in the morning. She wiped her mouth with unsteady hands, straightened with some difficulty over the ache in her belly, and turned to face her cousin.

The moon had set, but the sky had begun to lighten over the mountains to the east. She could see Margot perfectly. She wore her wool overcoat with the fox collar, and a dark hat and gloves. She had her medical bag in one hand, and she reached toward Allison with the other.

“Why are you outside?” she asked, taking Allison’s hand. “It’s cold, and you—have you been out?” Her eyes took in Allison’s clothes, her muddied shoes, her stockings, which must be revolting now, laddered and splashed with vomit.

Allison shuddered to have Cousin Margot touch her filthy hand. She tried to wipe the tears from her face, but she knew she was a complete mess, and she trembled with humiliation. “I did go out,” she confessed in a rush. When Margot didn’t look shocked, or disgusted, or anything except concerned, she blurted, “I went to a speakeasy!” and then held her breath, prepared for the onslaught of reproach that was sure to follow.

Instead, Margot drew her up onto the porch and in through the back door. She turned on the kitchen light, then pulled off her gloves and pressed her fingers to Allison’s forehead. Evidently satisfied, she tipped up her chin to look into her eyes. “Did you drink anything?” she asked. “Were you sick?”

“I did,” Allison said. She pulled her head away and dropped her gaze to her soiled shoes. “They’re called Bee’s Knees, but they taste like—I don’t know, like turpentine. And I was sick in the rose bed.” She wrapped her arms around her sore stomach, wishing she could just drop through the floor and disappear. Cousin Margot hadn’t called Papa before, but she surely would now. She would tell him all about Allison’s transgression, and when he heard—

But Margot was nodding. “It’s just as well you were sick, Allison. You probably got it all out of you, and that’s good. Bootleg alcohol can be dangerous.” She went to the sink and ran a glass of water. “I’d like you to drink as much water as you can.” She held out the glass.

Allison, hardly knowing how to react, accepted the glass and drained it. When it was empty, Margot filled it again and passed it back to her. Allison sipped it more slowly this time, cautious of her rebellious stomach. Margot was regarding her with that intent look, but Allison didn’t mind it so much now, when she really did feel ghastly.

She finally said, “I’m awfully sorry, Cousin Margot.”

Now Margot smiled, her narrow lips curving at the corners. There were smudges under her eyes, and she looked pale. She was tired, Allison thought. She must have been called to the hospital. She might not have been to bed at all. Margot said, “I suppose you went out with a boy tonight. I didn’t know you knew anyone here in Seattle.”

Allison answered cautiously. “It was someone I met on my crossing.”

“Really? And he came here?”

“I think he likes me.”

“Of course he does. You’re a very pretty girl.”

It was an offhand compliment, a statement made easily, as if it were obvious, and Allison didn’t know how to respond. She would have to think about that later, when she didn’t feel so sick. She lifted one shoulder, not quite a shrug.

Margot’s smile faded, and she fixed Allison with that searching gaze again. “I have to ask you something,” she said. “Despite your lack of menses, I need to make certain. There’s no chance you’re pregnant, is there?”

Allison had never expected such a question. It sent a shiver through her, one of surprise, but also of recognition. Somehow, she knew this was important. She wished she knew why. She stammered, “I—I can’t be, can I, Cousin Margot? I’m not married.”

Margot lifted one sleek eyebrow. “Surely you know, Allison, you don’t have to be married to conceive.”

Mute, lost, Allison shook her head.

Margot clicked her tongue and blew out a long, exasperated breath. Allison felt fresh tears start in her eyes, but Margot, seeing, put out a hand to touch her shoulder. “No, no, Allison, don’t cry. The fault for this lies at someone else’s door, I promise you. But you’re nineteen years old, and you really should know about sex.”

“My mother said—” Allison began, then stopped, tongue-tied with confusion. Adelaide hadn’t said anything, in truth. She had said only that Allison would learn all about it from her husband, and she had implied that it would not be pleasant.

Margot dropped her hand from Allison’s shoulder and gave her a tight, weary smile. “I’m so tired, Allison, I can hardly think. Perhaps we should talk about this some other time. But—” She held up one forefinger. “We should talk. It’s not fair for you to go on in ignorance. Not fair to you, I mean.”

Allison made herself ask, “Are you going to call Papa?”

At this Margot chuckled. “Oh, Lord, no, Allison. Nineteen! I can hardly blame you for wanting a little fun.”

“I shouldn’t have gone out, I know.”

“You took a risk,” Margot said. “Several of them, actually. But you don’t know anyone your age here. You must be lonely.”

Again, Allison didn’t know how to answer. Her papa never worried if she was lonely. Adelaide only worried about how she looked. She just wasn’t used to discussing—or even acknowledging—her feelings.

Margot gave a short nod and put her hand under Allison’s arm. “Well, there’s no harm done that I can see. Let’s get you to bed, unless you’re still feeling sick.”

Allison shook her head. Her stomach felt tender, and her throat burned from having retched for so long, but she didn’t think she was going to throw up again.

“Good,” Margot said. She picked up her medical bag in her other hand, and steered Allison toward the stairs. The back stairs, Allison noticed. They went up together, and when they reached Allison’s door, Margot pointed down the hall. She whispered, “If you feel ill again, knock on my door.”

“Cousin Margot—”

Margot had released her arm, but she waited, eyebrows lifted.

Allison said softly, “You’ve been so nice.”

“Not at all. I just want you to be safe,” Margot said.

“Do you have to tell Uncle Dickson?”

“I don’t think so.” Margot smiled again, and Allison thought she had rather a nice smile. It seemed more special because she didn’t use it very often. “Sleep, Allison. We both need to sleep. Let’s talk about everything tomorrow.”

C
HAPTER
12

After her evening with Tommy, Allison slept fitfully. She had never had reason to believe that promises meant anything, and despite Margot’s calm demeanor, she braced herself for trouble.

She came into the dining room to find her cousin already at the table, looking pale and a bit puffy-eyed. Margot glanced up, murmured a distracted good morning, then sat in tired silence, drinking her coffee. Ramona came in, talking quietly with Dick. Edith came in with Dickson and sat down without speaking. Uncle Dickson grunted a general greeting and retreated behind the shield of the
Times,
just as he always did. Cousin Dick nodded to everyone before tucking into a bowl of oatmeal and several rashers of bacon. Allison took her seat across from the empty place setting, feeling like a small, drab mouse waiting for a trap to be sprung.

It never happened. In a short time Margot and the men traipsed out the front door to meet Blake, waiting with the Essex. Ramona shepherded Aunt Edith upstairs. The twins peeked in to see if they could begin clearing the dining room.

It seemed the trap had never been set. Relief made Allison tremble, and as she had suffered another bout of dizziness that morning, she ate an entire bowl of oatmeal with cream and brown sugar and raisins.

Margot had been as good as her word. It was something to think about, and as Allison and Ruby set about sorting through her wardrobe for her warmest woolen things to prepare for winter weather, she had to accept that she had misjudged her cousin. Ruby chattered away, tossing out tidbits of news she had picked up from the housemaids. Allison wasn’t listening and missed most of it, until Ruby mentioned that Cousin Margot’s new clinic was ready.

What interested Ruby, of course, was what had happened to the old one. “It burned up, Miss Allison,” she said. “That’s when your cousin Preston died. He got burned up, too.”

“What?”

“Your cousin Preston. He died in the fire.”

“I knew that, but—what are they saying about it?”

“Leona said—” She lowered her voice and looked around dramatically as if someone might be spying on them. “Leona said your cousin Preston started that fire. That he did it on purpose. Loena won’t speak his name, so Leona told me when her sister wasn’t in the room.”

“Why won’t Loena speak his name?”

Ruby shrugged. “Nobody said.”

“Ruby, didn’t you ask?”

“Oh, no, Miss Allison. My mother told me a lady’s maid should keep herself to herself. I try to do that.”

Allison considered Ruby’s discretion to be a bit selective, but she didn’t say anything. Ruby wouldn’t understand if she pointed it out. Instead, she pulled a camel’s hair sweater out of the back of the wardrobe, put it to her nose, and sniffed it. “This smells like mold,” she said.

Ruby held out her hand for it and draped it over the bed. “I’ll air it on the line. It’s just been in the trunk too long.” She turned to survey the now-empty wardrobe. “Is that everything?”

“It must be.”

“But what about that?”

Ruby pointed, and Allison followed her gesture. A fold of pink georgette peeked out from beneath the bed, startlingly bright against the dull wool of the rug. Allison’s heart thudded with fresh alarm. Even from here, she could see the dress was stained, soiled with dirt and rain and probably—revoltingly—sick. She started to push it out of sight with her foot, to kick it back into the darkness beneath the bed, but she was too late. Ruby was already bending, tugging it out, holding it up to the light. “What—what happened to your frock?” she exclaimed.

Allison reached for it and pulled it from Ruby’s hands. “I must have dropped it,” she said.

“Dropped it! Miss Allison, look at that hem! Who would have made such a mess?” Ruby, decisive for once, snatched the dress back and draped it over one arm. “It’s all uneven and—” She turned the hem up with her free hand and stared from the ragged seam to Allison’s face. “Did you try to do this yourself?”

Facing this new threat of betrayal, Allison sagged onto the stool before her dressing table. “I—I didn’t want to bother you,” she said in a faint voice. Her breakfast shivered in her belly.

“Bother me! More like, trying to do me out of my job,” Ruby said sourly.

Allison caught her breath under a wave of guilty consternation. “Ruby, no! I wouldn’t—”

Ruby interrupted her. “If you want to learn how to sew, you could just ask me, Miss Allison, though it ain’t—I mean isn’t—proper. You have me to do for you, don’t you? Why would you want to—” She turned the frock over, and her little spate of words trickled to a stop.

The stains were even uglier in the wintry sunshine streaming through the bedroom window. They were multicolored, from rust and copper to an undigested, rank-looking brown. To Allison, they looked like exactly what they were. Spilled liquor, dirt from the speakeasy’s filthy tables and sticky chairs, rain spots, a bit of mud from the rose bed, and . . . Her breakfast turned in her sore stomach.

Ruby asked, “Where did you wear this, Miss Allison?”

Allison stood up and snatched the dress from Ruby’s hands. She rolled it into a tight pink ball. “It’s ruined, Ruby,” she said firmly. “I wanted to take the hem up, and I knew you wouldn’t like it so short, so I tried to do it myself. I spilled a whole pot of tea on it.”

“That won’t never come out of silk georgette.”

“As I said,” Allison repeated, “it’s ruined. If you’re keeping track for Papa, you can add this to the list.”

Ruby’s eyes widened, and a flush crept over her plain cheeks. “Miss Allison, your papa—I mean, Mr. Henry—he—”

Allison, feeling she had regained the upper hand, patted the maid’s arm. “I know all about it, Ruby,” she said. “Papa set you to spy on me, didn’t he? I hope he made it worth your while.”

“Oh, Miss Allison,” Ruby said miserably. “You weren’t to know about it. Now I’ll be in trouble with Mr. Henry.”

“No, you won’t,” Allison said. “I’m not going to tell him, so you don’t need to, either.” She thrust the ruined frock forward. “Just get rid of this, will you? We don’t need to talk about it anymore.”

Ruby, her face stained an unbecoming red, took the rolled-up dress and carried it out of the bedroom. Allison wandered to the window to stare out at the winter landscape and wonder if there was any way to send Ruby back to San Francisco. It wasn’t the maid’s fault, she knew, and she didn’t want to be the cause of Ruby losing her job.

At least it was all in the open now. Ruby had more or less admitted that her first loyalty was to Papa and Mother. She had taken her orders from Adelaide from the very first. It was too bad they couldn’t be better friends. Allison had even less control over her life than Ruby did.

There had been a nanny once, when Allison was small, a sweet little woman called Rosy. She was a plump, warm-bodied person, ready with a grin or a kiss or a hug, whichever she deemed most useful in the moment. Skinned knees, pinched fingers, bad dreams, late-night thirsts, whatever small domestic crisis arose, the staunch and easygoing Rosy had a remedy. Rosy, in fact, was everything Adelaide was not, maternal and comfortable and uncritical. Allison had loved her with all the intensity a lonely child could muster.

One terrible day, six-year-old Allison refused to go to her mother when she was ordered to. She couldn’t have known the consequences of her action, of course. She could only assess it now, recalling the scene as best she could. She had buried her face in the folds of Rosy’s apron and clung to her sturdy legs until Adelaide tore her away. With Allison squalling all the way, Adelaide marched the little girl off to whatever task she had in mind. Allison couldn’t remember Rosy saying anything, protesting or interfering in any way, but that didn’t matter. Adelaide pronounced the nanny “too familiar.” She was gone from the house the next day. No one told Allison anything about it, or offered the child any explanation. All she knew was that her protector, her friend, the only adult she could trust, vanished without a word of farewell.

Years later, coming upon a doll wearing clothes Rosy had sewn, Allison asked about her. Her mother sniffed and began a lecture on the proper behavior of servants and their mistresses.

Now, Allison knew that it was she who had been to blame for Rosy being sent away. She had revealed too much of her true feelings in front of her mother. It didn’t matter that she had been six. It didn’t matter that she was now nineteen. Adelaide was not to be trusted with feelings or confidences or anything else.

Eventually, Allison came to understand that her father had been complicit in the loss of Rosy. He could have intervened, spoken up for her, protested that Allison needed the nanny who had been with her since she was tiny, and who, by any measure that counted, truly loved her. By the time she discerned that truth, her father was firmly entrenched on her mother’s side, a partisan in the war between mother and daughter. Ruby had been carefully selected and coached so as not to provide Allison with an ally, which meant that she had no one.

Until now. Was it possible that Cousin Margot . . . ?

Margot intended to reopen her clinic quietly, simply post hours in the window and let patients find her in the same way they had in the past. When she announced this to the family at breakfast, Dick protested that she should make more of a celebration of it. Her mother received the news in the absent way that had become her habit, as if she hadn’t really registered what was being said.

Several days had passed since Margot came upon Allison being sick in the roses, but there had been no time for the promised talk. It weighed on Margot’s mind, one of many things needing her attention.

Allison surprised her now by saying, “Let me help, Cousin Margot. You should make it an occasion.” She had said so little since her arrival that every person at the table turned to her in surprise. Her cheeks colored under their regard.

“An occasion?” Margot asked blankly. “How does one do that?”

Allison gave her a shy smile. The first morning after the night of the speakeasy, Allison had looked like a frightened kitten, but when she came to understand that Margot truly wasn’t going to report her misdeed, she appeared to relax. She had gone shopping twice with Ramona, and Hattie reported that Allison had eaten reasonably well before those trips. Margot took that as an assurance that Allison had understood her warning. No doubt the girl preferred not to faint in another tearoom.

“Well,” Allison said now. “First, there should be a formal announcement.”

Dickson said, “Good idea, young lady. I’ll speak to C. B. Blethen. Get something in the
Times
.”

Margot said weakly, “The
Times
?” It wasn’t the newspaper that surprised her. It was the conversation, this discussion, treating the event of her clinic opening as if it mattered to any Benedict but herself.

Allison went on in a little rush, though Margot could see she was self-conscious about it. “You could have a—let’s see—a reception. Or a tea. Invite everyone to see your office, tour the examination rooms. Emily Post says—” She broke off, her cheeks flaming now.

“No, do go on, Cousin Allison,” Ramona said. “What does Emily Post say?”

Allison fidgeted with her flatware, but she pressed on. “She gives instructions for an afternoon tea. A tiered plate, if you have one—”

“Of course we do,” Ramona said.

“She says to put the sandwiches at the top, and the sweets—cookies or cakes—on the lower tiers.” She paused and added, haltingly, “I could pour, Cousin Margot. I know how to do that.”

It was the longest speech any of them had heard the girl make. There was an odd moment around the table, everyone trying to adjust to this new Allison. The change in her demeanor was gratifying, but it was startling, too. Margot sensed the family members taking care not to look at one another as they judged how best to react.

It was Dick who broke the silence, saying heartily, “Excellent, excellent. You’ll be a lovely hostess, Cousin Allison. Lucky you, Margot! And we’ll all come, won’t we, Ramona?”

“Of course we will.”

Margot couldn’t think whether this was a good idea or an insane one. Blake was in the dining room, his cane in one hand and coffeepot in the other, and he paused behind Allison’s chair. He caught Margot’s eye and gave her a subtle nod. Prompted by this, she said, “Allison, it’s a very kind thought. Thank you. If you don’t mind taking charge—I’d be happy to make an occasion of it.” Margot couldn’t help thinking, Perhaps Frank will come. But she didn’t speak the thought aloud.

He had mentioned in his last letter that he expected to return to Seattle before Christmas, but that was nearly a month away. Sometimes Margot thought she couldn’t bear to wait. She had taken care not to press him, not to ask him to promise, or to tell him how much she missed him. But she did. She missed him with a constant phantom ache somewhere in her body, no place she could name medically but which, emotionally, was as real as any physical location.