Free Nine Buck's Row by Jennifer Wilde

cause of those bitter lines about his mouth, that mocking arrogance in his eyes? What kind of woman would appeal to a man like that.…
    Frowning, I brushed my hair briskly until it fell to my shoulders in rich golden-brown waves and fastened a cream velvet bow in back. I applied a touch of coral to my lips and smoothed a little rouge over my cheekbones, not daring to use much. Although I saw nothing wrong with make-up and had frequently experimented with it, I knew that most people frowned upon it. Nice young girls didn’t use rouge. Nice young girls didn’t think about older men and wonder about their love affairs. Nice young girls sat around in parlors and did needlepoint and blushed furiously if they chanced to see a naked piano leg. Perhaps I was more like Millie than I thought.
    Maggie was alone in the dining room when I entered. I smiled, trying to hide my disappointment.
    â€œYou look enchanting,” she said, tilting her head to one side and examining my dress. Her eyes lingered on the tight bodice. “ Very mature for your age, aren’t you, dear?”
    â€œI’m almost nineteen.”
    â€œWhen I was your age, I was already married to my first husband. Some of us mature earlier. Come, dear, sit down, sit down. Mrs. Henderson will serve us—have you ever been in love?”
    I shook my head, discomfited by the question.
    â€œNot even once? Outrageous! The men must be blind—”
    She cut herself short as the housekeeper came in with the roast. Mrs. Henderson was large and plump, her hair jet-black, her eyes dark, a perpetual crease between her brows. She clumped about noisily, casting angry glances at both of us. She looked as though nothing would have pleased her more than serving a generous portion of arsenic with the soup.
    â€œPoor thing, I don’t think she enjoys herself much,” Maggie said as the woman shoved out the swinging door. “I’m always begging her to take a day off and go visit friends, but she prefers to stay in her room. Perhaps she’s making a bomb—” She laughed merrily, orange-red ringlets bouncing on either side of her face.
    â€œI’m sorry Nicky couldn’t make it back in time to join us,” she continued. “He keeps such a strange schedule. I never know what to expect.”
    â€œHow long has your nephew been staying here with you?” I inquired.
    â€œAbout—oh, let me see now—six weeks, I’d say. He arrived two weeks or so before that horrible murder at the George Yard Buildings—the Tabrun woman and all that blood on the stairs. That was August seventh, wasn’t it? Yes, he’s been here about six weeks. He does keep peculiar hours. He might be out all night, then spend the next two days compiling notes in the study, absolutely livid if anyone breathes loud down the hall. Concentration, you know.”
    â€œDoes he go out much socially?”
    â€œNot often. He sees a few friends now and then, and I suspect he takes an occasional woman—most men do , my dear—but mostly he prefers to be alone. Since Valerie—well, since the divorce he’s lost interest in most of the people he used to chum with.”
    Maggie shook her head disapprovingly and let the subject drop. I would have loved to have questioned her about his marriage to Valerie and the divorce, but good manners forbade it. She chatted happily about her shop and the hats and bonnets she made and the difficulty of obtaining fine quality plumes and enough good velvet. I listened politely, still thinking of Nicholas Craig and wondering about Valerie. Such a beautiful name, so melodious. Did it suit the first Mrs. Nicholas Craig?
    After we finished dessert, Maggie and I went into the parlor. It was an attractive room with ivory walls, a plush maroon sofa, maroon drapes and a large ebony piano, the wood reflecting the orange glow of the oil lamps. Maggie sat in an overstuffed brown-and-ivory-striped chair,