The Lost Girl of Astor Street(2)

He tips his flat cap. “I haven’t heard, Miss Sail.”

Matthew closes the door behind me once my limbs are tucked safely inside. “He had better return today,” I say to Lydia. “Home is almost insufferable without him around.”

Lydia fusses with a tendril of long, flame-red hair. Her mother, unfortunately, won’t hear of her bobbing it. And Lydia won’t hear of doing something of which her parents disapprove. “Piper, you really should consider giving up that friendship. You’re getting too old to be friends with boys.”

“We’re not going to have this conversation yet again, are we? I’ve told you—it’s not like that with Walter and me.”

“It hasn’t been, but it’ll change if you stay on this course. You don’t really want to be a baseball player’s wife, do you? Surely even you couldn’t be happy in that situation.”

I glance up front as Matthew folds his tall frame behind the wheel. I wait until the engine thunders to life before answering. “First of all, Walter is like a brother. Secondly, even if he weren’t, you of all people, Lydia LeVine, are hardly in a position to lecture me on propriety when—”

Lydia’s ice-blue eyes spear me. “Not a word about that.” Her gaze skitters to the back of Matthew’s head and her cheeks flush red.

I glance at Matthew’s profile. I can’t exactly fault Lydia’s fondness for him. While he doesn’t have the rakish, worldly charm of Jeremiah Crane—which I care nothing for, of course—there’s a quiet confidence about him that all men would do well to have.

Still. Lydia is a darling of the Astor Street district. Not just wealthy and well-bred, but sweet too. She could have anyone. Why Matthew?

Maybe Mrs. LeVine is right. Maybe I am a bad influence on her daughter.

Lydia scratches behind her ear. Then on her arm. “Do I have something on me? I’m so itchy today.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“It’s weird to have dry skin this time of year, right?”

My heart seems to pause in my chest. Is this some side effect of her illness?

“And at least he has goals. Dreams.” Lydia’s voice is so quiet that even I can hardly hear her. She scratches at the nape of her neck again. “Walter’s whole life is baseball. What happens if he never becomes a professional? If he gets injured? I’m just looking out for you, Piper. You deserve more than a paycheck-to-paycheck life.”

I raise my eyebrows at her. “I’m running out of ways to say this—I have no intentions of marrying Walter. But what kind of life do you think you’d have with—”

She gives me the same harsh look I’ve seen Mrs. LeVine wear when she wants Lydia’s little sisters to shut their mouths.

The car is so loud that there’s no way Matthew can hear, but I humor her sensitivities and utilize our code name. “Pickles. What kind of life do you think you’d have with Pickles?”

Lydia giggles, and the flush of embarrassment fades to a becoming shade of pink. She leans forward and taps Matthew’s shoulder with a gloved hand. “Matthew? I’ll need you to drop me at the Barrows’ home today.”

My body goes stiff. Is Lydia truly planning to watch Cole today?

Lydia leans back in her seat. Scratches the back of her leg. “This dry weather must be what has me so itchy.”

I look out the window, my mind churning as I take in the tall buildings of Lake Shore Drive. Maybe I’m overreacting and Lydia is merely paying a social visit to Mrs. Barrow. “Why are you going to the Barrows’?”

“They still haven’t found a new nanny, so I’m watching Cole when I can.”

If only I could come right out and tell Lydia why she’s in no shape to care for a small child. You can’t tell anyone—Mrs. LeVine’s cautionary words ring in my ear—not even Lydia.

Still. I have to say something. “Do your parents know?”

Lydia’s blue eyes widen. “Of course.”

“And they don’t mind?”

“Why ever would they? Mrs. Barrow is desperate for help. It’s horrible, the situation they’re in. What sort of person—especially a nanny by trade—leaves a family when the mother is weeks out from the birth of a second child? To go work in some speakeasy, of all places?”

“It is horrible. But . . .” I weigh my words before letting them out. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to it today?”

Lydia directs her gaze forward. Her jaw clenches and her pert nose is in the air. “Of course.”

I open my mouth, but the words I want to say—you really shouldn’t—stick in my throat. I’m not accustomed to handing out cautionary advice.

“Mrs. Barrow is lucky to have you,” I say instead.

“It’s no trouble. Cole is such a dear.”

My snort of laughter is apparently audible over the roar of the engine. Lydia grins at me. “He is, I swear. You just happen to hate all children.”

“Just because I’ve yet to meet a child I enjoy doesn’t mean I hate all children.”

“You don’t even like your own nephew.”

“Who would? Howie cries all the time.”

“He’s a baby. And he’s darling.”

“And you’re the nicest person in the world.”