Empire Girls. Литагент HarperCollins USD

old to be living at home, and I was determined not to follow in her footsteps.

      “Yes,” Rose said. “I’ve built my entire life around this house. It’s all I have, and we both know it.”

      I couldn’t argue with that. Rose needed something tangible to prove her worth in the world; I had what was in my head. My father had given that to me, and only me. Guilt wasn’t something I experienced often, but I could recognize it. “We’ll find Asher,” I promised, taking the photograph from her hands. I held it up to Mr. Lawrence. “Where did you get this?”

      “According to your father, the photograph was sent to your house approximately eighteen months ago,” he explained, obviously relieved I’d asked a question he could answer. “No return address. Empire House is a boarding hotel for women, so either he knew someone who lived there or the spot was chosen at random.”

      “It’s a start,” I said, growing excited at the prospect of traveling to the city. Empire House sounded grand. I pictured ladies in their finery, sipping gin rickeys on the sly and admiring each other’s diamonds. “We’ll send a telegram to let them know we’re on our way.”

      Mr. Lawrence reached into his suit coat pocket and extracted a white card. “My address. Please write to let me know you’ve arrived safely and keep me apprised of whatever you find. I’ll see what I can do from here.”

      We both knew that was nothing much. I added his card to the folder and tucked it under my arm. “We’ll keep in touch,” I said as he took my hand. “Thank you.” When it was Rose’s chance to say goodbye, Mr. Lawrence returned to his valise. He lifted a small framed drawing from it, an India ink rendition of a single rose. “Your father admired this when he visited my office, Miss Adams,” he said, handing it to my sister. “I’d like you to have it.”

      “That’s very kind of you,” Rose said in a small voice.

      Perhaps I’d misjudged Mr. Lawrence, I thought as I watched Rose hug the frame to her bosom. Given his closing argument, he was probably quite good in the courtroom.

      “I suppose we can’t blame him,” Rose said after he left. “He does seem a decent sort of person.”

      “For a solicitor,” I muttered. We stood there in silence, neither of us moving. I had no idea what Rose was thinking, but I had only one thought: let’s get started. I gestured toward the drawing. “Should we put his gift on our wall, even if we only own it for another few hours?”

      She smiled bitterly at my choice of words. “All right.”

      Father frequently changed the paintings on the walls in his study, leaving a hodgepodge of bare nails and crooked frames as a result. Though I admired his work, the sheer volume made careful scrutiny impossible. As I scanned his makeshift collage, looking for the perfect spot to hang Mr. Lawrence’s drawing, my eye fell on a small painting I was certain had been gathering dust for years. It featured a woman holding a wiggling toddler. Blonde and pretty, she stood on a stoop in front of an imposing brownstone, a copper plaque half-hidden by the child’s flailing arms.

      “Rose, bring that photograph of Asher over here.”

      She did, and I held it next to the painting. The door, the plaque—it was Empire House.

      Rose squinted at the two. “I suppose I should send that telegram right away.”

      CHAPTER 3

      Rose

      WE RECEIVED AN answer from Empire House two days after Ivy sent the telegram. She’d come running up the driveway and into the kitchen, bringing the spring morning behind her like a trail of hope. I was pressing her dresses in the kitchen, where I’d set up an orderly “Packing Station” so that we wouldn’t bring too much or too little. We could only bring the most necessary items, and the rest of our things would be sold lock, stock and barrel with the house if I did not succeed in New York City. Choosing what to take and what to leave behind was more of a chore than I’d anticipated, and soon I wanted to bring nothing at all.

      “You haven’t had your toast, Ivy.”

      “Who cares about toast! We’ve gotten our rooms, Rose! Listen...

      “‘Dear Ms. Adams,’” began Ivy, reading me the letter and pacing back and forth with excitement.

      “Did you want tea, Ivy?”

      “No...I don’t want tea. Would you listen?”

      I nodded.

      “‘Dear Ms. Adams,’” she began again.

      

      

      “‘Though it is not our usual rule to lease space to young women we have not already met and interviewed, it seems you are in luck. We’ve had a recent vacancy here at Empire House, making room for you and your sister. Please be advised that the accommodations are modest at best. If you do not arrive within the week, we cannot assure the room will be available. Please send a telegram on the day of your arrival, so we may prepare. Note, as well, that if we deem you unsuitable, you will be denied occupancy. Please send us your arrival date, and we will have a driver waiting for you at the station.

      Nell Horatio Neville (Proprietor of Empire House)’”

      

      

      “Not very warm, is it?” I said, misting a cotton nightdress with water.

      “It is the city, Rose. I swear, you are so...so...”

      “What?” I asked.

      “Pedestrian...”

      Then she ran off again. She’d been spinning in circles since Father’s funeral. I had, too, only my circles were in my head, while Ivy seemed to be walking on a cloud.

      I was worried.

      I put the hot iron back onto the stove and sat at my kitchen table folding father’s shirts. I was going to give them to Mr. Lawrence, but I wanted them to be tidy. It was the proper thing to do.

      I knew Ivy was devastated by our father’s death. We both were. But when Lawrence gave us the news...the unspeakable news about Asher, Ivy seemed to forget all her sorrow. Part of me was glad that she had a diversion. Glad that her dreams of living in The City were coming true. I knew that eventually she’d fall back into grieving, but her excitement set me free to take care of my own sorrows.

      I’d lost my father, my house and my future. It was a quiet loss, one that no one seemed to notice.

      I wasn’t going to New York City to throw myself into Asher’s arms. I was going to New York City to find a stranger, make a great deal of money and get him to sign my house back over to me.

      I knew the resemblance could make the difference in allowing him to accept us. Ivy didn’t seem to be at all worried that, once found, Asher might not want to have anything to do with us. I feared her romantic, theatrical view of life was clouding her view of reality. Our father had raised us...not him. Was it not fair to assume he might want to avoid being found at all? That he might resent us? I didn’t mention this to my sister. In truth, as Ivy hid from our father’s death inside a bubble of expectation and hope, I hid from it by convincing myself I’d slipped into a new narrative. I couldn’t help but think we’d been thrust into a Dickens or Austen novel almost overnight. It kept me separate...it kept me curious instead of dead inside. When we found him—if we found him—he would not be able to turn his back on me. No good character can walk away from another who could be their very twin. It’s the denouement of all great mysteries.

      Father always said that “Everyone has an inner narcissist....” I would be his conscience, and Asher would sign my house over to me. If you understand a bit of human nature, and don’t overestimate people, getting what you want is simple enough. I knew I could get the house back if we found him. The question was, how would we find him?

      I picked up