25 

The class was a blur.

Serving dinner Friday evening was a haze.

The night was interminable. Sarah went through the motions of putting on a nightdress and lying in bed, but she never closed her eyes. In the morning after breakfast, drained and red-eyed, she dusted the parlor, polished the foyer table, and laid the table for lunch.

All Sarah wanted was to be unconscious. How could she possibly undo yesterday’s events? The real question was, how long would Lillie wait before telling Brad? And then what? Sarah was running out of time.

Mrs. Fletcher stuck her head into the dining room just as Sarah finished the table. “I need you to go on an errand.”

Sarah groaned. She could not possibly manage an errand.

“Mrs. Banning has asked for some pound cakes with almonds and rose water. Richard likes it, and she wants to have it one more time before he leaves for Princeton next week.”

Sarah nodded. “From the bakery on Michigan Avenue.”

“She never has a kind word to say when I try to make it myself.”

“The bakery adds rose petals,” Sarah said. “I heard the baker say so himself.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m happy to have one less thing to cook. Go fetch it and we’ll serve it with lunch.”

“Yes, of course.”

“You look a fright, Sarah. Don’t bring that face to serving the table.”

Mrs. Fletcher disappeared into the butler’s pantry while Sarah rolled her eyes.

Sarah felt as if her blood had turned to sludge. The last thing that interested her was trudging over to Michigan Avenue to fetch pound cake. The grandfather clock in the foyer gonged ten times, and as its final tones faded, Sarah’s mind quickened.

She did not have to go straight to the bakery.

Sarah set the last dessert fork in place, then hustled through the kitchen and up the back stairs. In her room, she stripped off her apron and added a striking yellow jacket over her black dress. With the right hat cocked at a precise angle, the ensemble was more than passable. If only her eyes were not so bloodshot. Sarah pinched some color into her cheeks and stepped as lightly as she could down the stairs. It would be better if no one saw her leave and watched the direction she chose.

Instead of heading west to Michigan Avenue, Sarah scurried south along Prairie Avenue. Lillie might not have spoken to anyone yet. Perhaps she would agree to see Sarah. Perhaps she would hear Sarah out.

Outside the Wagner house, Sarah paused to catch her breath and tug her jacket back into place. A lock of hair had sprung loose, and now she tucked it into a pin under her hat. When she felt she could control her breathing, she approached the door and pulled the bell.

“Good morning, Miss Cuthbert,” the housekeeper said. “Is Miss Wagner expecting you?”

Miss Cuthbert. At least the Wagners’ household help had not yet heard the truth.

“No, I don’t believe she is.” Sarah invoked as bright a tone as possible. “This is rather a spur-of-the-moment call.”

“I will let her know you’re here.”

Mrs. Burnett escorted Sarah into the Wagner parlor, where she sat with her hands clenched in her lap, forcing herself to breathe at regular intervals without gulping.

Lillie descended the stairs in no hurry. The traitor could wait. When Mrs. Burnett announced that Miss Serena Cuthbert was paying a call, Lillie had been tempted to deny knowing the visitor. Serena Cuthbert did not exist, after all. But after sleeping hardly a wink the night before, Lillie thought it might do her some good to speak her mind to Sarah Cummings. She paused in the doorway to the parlor and crossed her arms.

Sarah stood up and pressed her hands together. “Hello, Lillie.”

Lillie pressed her hands together in front of her. “Hello, Sarah.”

“I was hoping we could talk.” Sarah took a step toward Lillie.

“About what? More stories about Europe? New Hampshire? Lake Forest?” Lillie moved into the room, but she did not sit down. “My guess is you have never lived anywhere but Chicago.”

“You guess correctly,” Sarah said softly. “Is it so terrible for me to dream of going to those places?”

“Everything you’ve ever said to me was a lie.” Lillie was just as furious at herself. How could she have been so naïve to believe every word that came out of this woman’s mouth?

“Not everything.”

“You did teach me how to cut out a dress,” Lillie conceded. “Now I understand all the fashions I’ve admired in your wardrobe are your own work.”

“My mother taught me early,” Sarah said.

Lillie spoke softly now. “I’m sorry you lost your parents.”

“Thank you.”

“But you were wrong to lie to me all this time. I thought I had a friend. And I really need a friend. I was going to ask you to stand up with me at my wedding.”

“And I would have said yes.”

“You mean Serena would have said yes.” The bite was back in Lillie’s tone. She could hear it herself.

“I am Serena,” Sarah said. “Don’t you see that?”

“Serena is someone you created.”

“She’s someone I’ve become.”

“But she doesn’t exist.”

“Doesn’t she? Haven’t you stitched dresses with her? Shared meals? When Paul kissed you the first time, didn’t you tell Serena before anyone else?”

“You know what I mean,” Lillie insisted. “There is no Serena Cuthbert. There can’t possibly be a birth certificate or school records. She certainly has never been to France.”

“That’s all true,” Sarah said, “but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t exist.”

“You’re confusing me.”

“I don’t mean to.” Sarah crossed the room and put a hand on Lillie’s arm. “Please don’t tell Brad.”

“How can you possibly think you can persist in this farce? You can’t hope to marry a man without telling him the truth.”

“But what is the truth? When I am Serena, I’m real. That’s what Brad knows. It’s what he wants.”

“You’re taking advantage of him.”

“If he comes to care for me in a genuine way, how is that taking advantage of him? Serena can make him happy. I can make him happy.”

“You don’t even know who you are.”

“I know what I want,” Sarah said. “Yes, I lived in St. Andrew’s. Yes, I am a parlor maid for the Bannings. Yes, I make my own clothes. Does that mean I can never have anything more, be anything else? You would never have spoken to me that first day in the hat shop if you knew I was in service.”

Lillie squirmed out of Sarah’s grasp and took a few steps across the room. Sarah was right. She had leaped at friendship with someone she assumed shared her background and her status. The way Sarah was dressed that day, the hat she was considering, the bag she carried.

“Are you going to break off our friendship now because I’m a maid?” Sarah asked.

Lillie shook her head. “No, not because you are a maid, but because you are a liar!”

“You don’t understand!”

“The facts are perfectly clear.”

“I’m not talking about facts,” Sarah said. “I’m talking about dreams. Even parlor maids have dreams, and dreams are as real as facts.”

Lillie stared vacantly at the landscape painting over the fireplace while she thought. “All right,” she finally said, “I won’t tell anyone. But we can’t see each other, because I will not take part in actively perpetuating this deceit. It’s sure to catch up with you. If Brad comes to care for you—and you for him—he deserves to know the truth.”

Simon moved from shop to shop. This was not one of his favorite things to do, but experience had shown that if the director made the appeal personally, more shop owners responded. He simply wanted to place collection jars in the shops between now and Christmas and encourage generosity for St. Andrew’s. A few pennies every week in each shop up and down Michigan Avenue added up. He progressed from dry goods stores and grocers to dress shops and hat shops. Today he was merely making a list. He would return in a week or so to place the jars.

A bell jangled when he entered the bakery. Any of the children would have squealed in disbelief at what the store offered—cakes, pies, cookies, breads of every variety.

“Hello, Simon,” the baker said. “I think we made too much bread this morning. I may have the boy bring you a dozen loaves at the end of the day.”

“Thank you, Roy.” Simon knew Roy had baked too much bread quite intentionally. “Are you willing to take a collection jar again this year?”

“Why do you ask a foolish question, my friend?”

The bell jangled again.

“Ah, the lovely maid from the Bannings,” Roy said. “What can I do for you today?”

Simon pivoted. “Good morning, Sarah.”

She barely looked at him. “Morning, Simon. Roy, Mrs. Banning wants two of your rose water pound cakes. Have you got any today?”

“Certainly. I’ll just wrap them in the back.” The baker disappeared behind a curtain.

Simon and Sarah were left with each other. Simon thrust a hand into his patch pocket and twiddled his fingers. Sarah’s eyes did not seem to settle on anything, Simon noticed. She stood perfectly still, not showing even a hint of interest in the three-tiered red velvet cake in the case in front of her.

“What a pleasure to run into you,” Simon said. He moistened his lips.

“Likewise.”

She could not mean that. She had not even looked at him.

“I was sorry you were unable to attend the textile show,” Simon ventured, never having mastered the art of fishing for information in a subtle way.

“Oh. Right. The textile show. Yes, I’m sure I would have enjoyed that. Unfortunately, the schedule just did not work out.”

“Did Miss Wagner find your class yesterday?” Simon asked. “She inquired in the office, but I’m afraid no one was available to escort her down the hall.”

“She found me,” Sarah said, “but it turned out she was not able to stay after all.”

“Another time, then. She seems quite eager.”

She turned her head slightly away from him, her complexion blanched with the effort of withholding tears. Simon had seen enough of the older girls on the brink of tears to recognize the expression. He had seen Sarah just yesterday, when he opened the classroom door for her, and she had seemed fine. Simon glanced toward the curtain.

“Sarah,” he said, “if something’s wrong, I hope you know you can always talk to me.”

She did not speak. Simon saw the muscles of her throat struggle to swallow.

“Sarah, I want to help you.”

“I’m not one of your orphans anymore.”

Her words slapped him. “No, of course not. But I can see you’re distressed.”

“No, I’m not.”

Even in her denial, her protest cracked.

“Whatever it is, Sarah.”

She sucked in her breath and turned toward him.

Roy came through the curtain. “Here you go.” He thumped a package down on the counter. “It’s on the account.”

“Thank you, Roy.” Sarah picked up the package and left the shop without glancing at Simon.

“She dresses pretty smart for a maid,” Roy said.

Simon watched the bright yellow jacket vanish into the flow of Saturday shoppers.

Sarah set a brisk pace back to Prairie Avenue. She had been gone far longer than the errand required and was counting on nobody being sure what time she had left the house. With relief, she found the kitchen unoccupied, although meal preparation was clearly in process for lunch. She left the pound cakes on the counter and scampered up the servants’ stairs to retrieve her apron. As she tied it behind her back, she took several deep breaths.

She had not known what to expect from Lillie. A promise not to tell Brad was no small thing. At least it brought a reprieve while Sarah sorted out what to do next.

Under other circumstances she would have taken a few minutes to drop by the Lexington, and she hoped she still might sneak over in the afternoon. Brad had not sent a note since they’d seen each other on Wednesday. Sarah reminded herself that this was only the third day. The evening had not been particularly exciting, she had to admit. She spent more of it with Mr. Curtis than she did with Brad, and in the end Brad merely kissed her hand, claimed it was impossible for him to get away—again—and sent her home in his carriage.

Still, he smiled when he looked at her, and Sarah was sure it pleased him that she smiled back. He meant to pay attention to her, she was certain. It was just that his affairs were so complicated just now.

“After the election,” she said aloud.