Free Murder in a mill town by P.B. RYAN Page B

door. But it’s that fellow’s job to make sure only the right sort gain admittance, and he must have decided you didn’t qualify.”
    “Not because I’m... You don’t suppose he could tell I’m Irish.”
    “Nah, it’s the way you’re dressed.”
    Nell opened her shawl and looked down at herself. Of all the coolly sophisticated frocks Viola had ordered for her over the past four years, this one was by far the prettiest, a confection of gauzy smoke-colored lawn over a matching silk underdress. Although demurely styled, with long, full sleeves and a prim collar of Brussels lace, the fabric of the outer dress was so sheer that her bare arms and the snug, low-cut underbodice were clearly visible beneath it. “This is the only dress I own that doesn’t make me look as if I’m in half mourning.”
    Nulty winced. “I’m that sorry to hear it.” Jamming the cork back into his whiskey flask, he said, “You look like the wife of one of them Beacon Hill nabobs when they head up to the North End to do charity work. Why do you think I asked if you meant to pray over ‘em? That fella probably thought the same thing.”
    A trill of feminine laughter drew their attention to the stairway connecting Province Street to Bosworth. Two young couples in evening attire came into view beneath the oil lamp, their movements unsteady as they made their way down the stone steps. One of the ladies had let her cloak slip off her shoulders, undraping a blue satin gown that was terribly chic, and also quite daring in that it left her upper bosom and arms completely revealed.
    One of the gentlemen paused at the bottom of the steps to light a cigar. It was the first time Nell had seen a man of his station smoking on the street—a violation both of etiquette and city law. This was the fast young set to whom Nell, cocooned in a world of Brahmin propriety and centuries-old tradition, was rarely exposed.
    “Spence, old man,” the other gentleman slurred, “can’t you wait till we’re in Poole’s to light that damned thing?”
    “You’ll end up having to pay another fine,” warned the lady in blue.
    “There are no watchmen round here,” he said as he spun the tip of the cigar slowly in the flame of his match.
    “Here, take this.” Nell handed her shawl up to Nulty, then unpinned her hat and gave him that as well. His eyes widened when she removed her lace collar and undid the top few buttons, pushing aside the tissue-thin fabric to uncover her upper chest. In an effort to liven up her tame chignon, she plucked at a few tendrils around her hairline, letting them frame her face in curls—a hairstyle not dissimilar to that of the lady in blue. Her two-button kid gloves could stay, she decided, but the chatelaine had to go. Before handing it up to Nulty, she withdrew from it the cigarette that Otis had given her at the Hewitt Mill two days ago.
    The driver shook his head, grinning, as she turned to greet the two approaching couples. “I say, I don’t suppose one of you could spare a light.”
    There was a moment’s pause as the party regarded her curiously. Although cigarettes were making inroads among wealthy young mavericks—Will Hewitt smoked them—it was the rare female who indulged. Their eyes betrayed the nature of their speculations: Was she a wanton, a whore even, or one of their own? The ladies’ gazes scanned her dress; the men’s lingered on her bosom.
    She must have passed muster, at least with the cigar smoker, who tipped his hat and bowed before stepping forward to strike a match. Knowing better than to try to inhale the smoke, Nell merely held it in her mouth for a moment before letting it out. “Many thanks.”
    “Don’t mention it.” He nodded and rejoined his group, who proceeded down the stairs that led to Orlando Poole’s, with Nell casually bringing up the rear as if she were one of them.
    “Good evening, Mr. Cabot, Mr. Amory,” greeted the Negro as he held the door for them. “Ladies.”
    Nell