Chapter Text
Waiting on the Nine-Thirty to Halstead, Lu—Gigi—she has got to start thinking of herself as Gigi—decides she is the kind of girl who thinks train stations ever-so-romantic.
There’s something church-like about them; the towering marble arches and rows upon rows of windows, sunlight spilling across the long wooden benches, like pews, from every direction… she watches a Holstein gentlemen (a banker, judging by the style of his hat), disembark the Eight-Fifteen from Whitton to embrace his wife while his children tug excitedly at the tails of his overcoat, loudly demanding stories and sweets alike, and thinks trains are about the journey but stations are both pro and epilogue, beginning and end, where one sets out on an adventure of your own and the coming home afterwards…
Gigi’s own home had been her grandfather, and he is gone, a very true truth that aches a very real ache, but she breathes deep of February’s chill and reminds herself that her journey now is to find a place in the world for herself. Who she wants to be.
And Halstead will be perfect for figuring that out. Not so large a city as New York, but there will be plenty of work to be found if the hotel doesn’t hire her, and while two months crisscrossing the country had taught Gigi her girlhood was rather more sheltered than she had previously thought, it had also taught her there was very little she couldn’t do, and even less she could not learn to do when and where she bent her mind and will to the task. She hadn’t dared take more than a few dollars with her when she had run, but between shining shoes and mending shirt cuffs she’s managed to make back most of what she’s been forced to spend.
(There have been a few card games, but she’s been careful about who she plays with—and to never win too much, and to always lose twice before you quit.)
She’s joining the queue to board when—
“Miss! Miss-Flowers! Miss Flowers-hat!”
Gigi doesn’t realize the young man is trying to catch her attention until he collides with her (she is, after all, hardly the only woman wearing a hat trimmed in flowers), but he manages to keep them from going for a tumble without putting his hands anywhere untoward and she keeps a firm grip on her bag while he stammers out his apologies.
“Oh—dreadful sorry, Miss—just—the ticket master said you’d shown the advertisement—for the hotel—the Regency-Carlisle—is that where you’re going?”
The advertisement, clipped from yesterday morning’s newspaper, reading:
ALWAYS HIRING
MAIDS - COOKS - PORTERS - WAITERS
$5/WEEK STARTING PAY
THE REGENCY-CARLISLE HOTEL
SHOW AD FOR 10¢ OFF TRAIN FARE TO HALSTEAD NY
—is folded away in her pocket; she had indeed shown it for the discount on her ticket, but she didn’t get this far by telling passing strangers all about her plans. Traveling alone is dangerous enough; much less being a young lady traveling alone, much less being a rabbit young lady traveling alone…
And he’s Breggo, horsefolk—but that really doesn’t mean anything—auburn curls poking out from under his cap and a pale blaze down one of those handsome, aquiline noses—and beauty isn’t goodness either after all—in fact pretty boys are often more trouble than the ugly ones!
But she can’t very well not answer, either-either.
“I might be,” She says politely, “May I inquire as to why you ask?”
He blushes almost as red as his hair, staring at her as through every thought he’s ever had has just flown out his ears…
Which is very flattering—ahem—but hardly moves the conversation along.
“Are you applying for a position there as well?”
“Ah, yes—well—“ His senses see fit to make an attempt at reconciliation and he pats at his pockets to find and produce a policeman’s badge—
Oh rot and rubbish he’s a copper.
“I work there already—sort of—I’m a constable—you’re not in any trouble! I’m on loan to the hotel detective, it’s such a big place he needs a bit of help now and then—oh I’m making a hash of this, I’m sorry. My name is Rob, Robert Herring—you’re not in any trouble, but I’m in a bit of a fix—since we’re going the same way, might we speak on the train?”
He holds it out to her like he wants her to take it, so she does—almost hoping this is some sort of confidence game, but no; it’s heavy, pour-moulded, not stamped, and brass, not copper (the most common mistake forgers tend to make—copper tarnishes too easily), and he might be out of uniform but he’s wearing the kind of sturdy black work boots they issue to police—and only police keep their work boots shined they way his are.
She sees no means by which a good Christian girl could be of any use to the police, but, again, neither would one refuse—she shall not be in for the pound, but the pennies are lost already, drat it all.
“…you’re a copper named Rob?” She teases gently, testing his reaction.
He blinks for the moment it takes him to catch the joke—but then he laughs like it’s genuinely the funniest thing he’s ever heard and rot and drat and rubbish and every stick the devil’s ever fiddled with she might be in a little bit of trouble actually.
“And here I crossed a whole ocean because I didn’t want to be a Bobbie named Bobbie—there’s no escaping it, is there! But see here, I’ll buy you lunch if you’ll just hear me out—no strings—and then if you want me to leave you alone I will. Cross my heart!” He offers her an arm to help her up the step box.
She doesn’t point out that listening to whatever his problem is, is in and of itself a string (or that he could have simply chosen another profession); nothing is free and lunch is lunch.
And she doesn’t have anything against the police in principle, she thinks most of them probably sign on out of a genuine desire to help people, it’s just… a muddy old shades-of-gray world they all live in.
And she’d like to be the sort of person who can give people the benefit of the doubt, where there’s no harm in doing so (it has nothing to do with his blaze or his blue eyes or his laugh), and since they are to share the train to Halstead anyway…
“Alright then officer, what’s this wrong the police can’t right without the help of... well, the help?”
He pouts. “Oh, call me Rob, please! I’m off duty ‘til tomorrow morning.”
“Mister Herring then—I haven’t agreed to anything but lunch!”
“A fair cop,” He chuckles behind her as they thread their way down the aisles, already narrow, now crowded with people trying to find their own seats—and her ticket is for one of the third class coaches while his is for second, but he indulges in a minor abuse of power to afford them a booth in one of the buffet cars. “Can I throw in an offer of coffee to get your name?”
“You can—Gigi Dogwood—Miss Dogwood to you.”
“Dogwood?” His brows draw together in a puzzled frown, “But you’re a rabbit."
God help the police! She hopes he doesn’t plan on being a detective himself one day.
“And it’s a tree.” A pretty tree—but more importantly an extremely common one. She’s met more people with the surname Dogwood—of all kinds—than Gray and Porter put together. They are everywhere.
“But if you’re a rabbit, why are you named after a tree that’s named after a dog?”
“I don’t know!” She laughs, “I wasn’t there when it stuck! How did a horse wind up with the name Herring?”
“Well, actually; my grandfather was Herringtail mer. And my grandmother was Avian—a lark—they were literally the bird who fell in love with the fish, it was terribly romantic!”
“Where do they build their house?”
He grins, tongue between his teeth, “They bought a mill on the canal—“
“Then why aren’t you a Miller?”
“I don’t know, I wasn’t there when it didn’t stick. Here,” He slides his satchel into the seat across from her but doesn’t follow it, “Watch my bag? Coffee and sandwiches for two, coming right up!”
“I’m going to rob you blind!” She calls after him.
“I’ll get spectacles!”
She scuffs the soles of her shoes on the floorboards to knock off any remaining traces of mud she may have picked up trekking between stations, the day prior, and puts her feet up on the bench, to prevent anyone from mistaking the spot as still being open, and breathes.
He’s a nice boy, and not particularly clever—and she’s done nothing wrong. Not even illegal; Gigi Dogwood is a good girl. She doesn’t even cheat at cards!
(Counting them doesn’t count, she can’t help that.)
And she has to start making friends eventually, no one can go through life all alone.
And a copper could prove to be a very useful sort of friend to have...
He comes back with a tray heaped with sandwiches and a pot of coffee, two little tin cups hanging by their handles from one of his fingers.
“Don’t worry,” He says, winking. “I promise I paid full price for these—they have the best roast beef on the line—and this incredible French invention you must try! It’s just butter and cheese but it is the best thing you will ever eat I promise! I thought we could mix and match and then split the leftovers between us, what do you think?”
“I think for all this you’ve bought my attention and looking interested!” She flips the little fold up sideboard down, and he sets the tray in it, turning it until the hole and shallow peg in the tray slot into the corresponding shallow peg and hole in the table, to keep it from being upset by the rattle and sway of the train once they got moving.
“Now what’s this all about?”
“Alright—alright. So! Mr. Townsend—that’s the hotel detective—he’s got me working as a porter, because—“ He drops his voice, “—and please don’t go spreading this around, but the Regency-Carlisle has been bleeding cutlery the last ten months, and no one has been able to figure out who’s pinching it.”
He plucks the top two sandwiches from the pile and passes the second one to her to unwrap—and the heavy scent of a sweet cherry vinegar glaze makes her heart and stomach alike clench in hunger and memory; how many times had she and her grandfather made cherry vinegar jam together…
“Are you alright?”
“Quite—just—I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning—rushing to catch the train—I hadn’t realized how hungry I was!” She waves him off, “Do go on! You have my mostly undivided attention.”
It’s half true, she did have an apple, but Grand Central Station is so large—and so busy at all hours of the day and night—it had seemed safer to exchange sweeping the floor of a nearby chapel for a place to sleep; and ‘nearby’ had been a good six blocks, and as Halstead is quite the journey, she’d wanted to catch the earliest train she could.
He offers her the kind of sad smile that betrays that he doesn’t believe her (how different she must look from the last time she had the use of a mirror...), but doesn’t press.
“Well, I’ve ruled out most of the chaps, you see, but we’re not allowed in the maid’s dormitory—for—you know—which—I’m completely on board with it—or I would be, if I didn’t have two bosses breathing down my neck to solve this so—blo—blimey you don’t realize you’ve got a mouth until you’re trying to get through a sentence in front of a lady, do you?”
She hides a blush in a sip of her coffee. “You spoil me, Mr. Herring.”
He rests his chin in his free hand, smiling the smile of the kind of boy who knows exactly how charming he can be. “I’d sure like to, Miss Dogwood.”
She does not choke—but it is a very near thing.
Make that a lottle trouble.
“So—“ She taps the table as the final whistle sounds. “Just making sure I am understanding all this correctly, you need… someone new. Someone who isn’t one of your current suspects, to spy on the other girls for you? Eavesdrop on their conversations, go through any personal belongings when they’re not looking…”
He has the grace to look ashamed. “I know it sounds awful. But the hotel is taking the loss out of everyone’s wages; to be hired you have to agree to part of your pay being held back to help cover the cost of replacing anything lost or damaged on your shift, which—it isn’t as terrible as it sounds—it’s so you won’t necessarily be fired if you stain a tablecloth or knock over a vase or something, and if you do, and it’s worth more than whatever your balance is, they write off the difference and you start over—and then at Christmas you’re supposed to get whatever the current balance is as a lump sum—but they’re losing so much no one got any of their money back last year. And I’m only interested in finding the thief—that’s my assignment, I won’t ask you about anything else.”
Gigi hums. “And if I get caught? If I get fired? Spying on your previous employer tends to make it somewhat more difficult to find your next one."
“I’ll have the Inspector write up a letter explaining that you were assisting with a police investigation—I’ll get Mr. Townsend to sign it as well—and!” He plows on, at her continued hesitancy, “And I’ll give you half my take home pay from the hotel—since they pay me too—that’s a dollar fifty—that’s a total of four dollars and fifty cents you’ll be getting in cash, every week.”
Three dollars a week… well, she’d known five was too good to be true…
She doesn’t want to say yes—but if she does she almost certainly will get the job, and one of the coveted places in residence (which won’t be anything fancy, but it will save her the commute, and it’s unlikely she will be able to afford lodging anyplace anywhere near a hotel like the Regency-Carlisle…), whereas if she says no…
Realistically, she won’t. It was a long shot to begin with and Rob can’t afford to have someone who knows his secret but isn’t working with him potentially snitching on him to his suspect pool.
“I want the letter first.” She decides, “For me to keep. Signed, by all three of you, and I want that part about you paying me the dollar-fifty, every week, in there too…”
The hope in his eyes turns to relief, then to excitement. “Absolutely. Yes—oh—I can’t thank you enough Miss Dogwood! And—look even if everything goes wrong—I will make sure you find something else—something better—you might even have a future in law enforcement!”
“Oh, rubbish goes into your mouth, not out of it!” She laughs, shoving the heel of her sandwich in his face.
“No I mean it—it’s a new century!” He protests, “Pinkerton’s hires Lago detectives and Lady detectives, why couldn’t there be a Lady-Lago detective? You might not even be the first, for all I know.”
Wouldn’t that be a good joke? Gigi Dogwood a detective.
She thinks not. There’s tempting fate and there’s tempting irony.
But a little… snooping, for a good cause, for a pretty well meaning young man—it’s a bit of harmless fun—and the extra money won’t hurt either.