The Forgotten Room (9 page)

“What word is that?”

“Just that you felt it, too, even if it was only an instant. Tell me I
wasn't alone up there, Olive. God knows I'm sick to death of being alone in a crowded room.”

She picked up her basket and turned away, back up the path toward the gap in the wall on Fifth Avenue. “I can't.”

“Why not?”

She started walking. “Because you won't leave it at that, will you? You'll want me to come up and pose for you again, and you won't stop until I do, and it will ruin me.”

He tried to take the basket back, but she wouldn't let him, and they walked in silence out of the park and up Fifth Avenue. When they reached Sixty-ninth Street, she said, “You'll have to go on without me. We can't be seen together.”

“But you'll come upstairs tonight. You must.”

She didn't reply.

“I won't touch you, I swear. I won't say a single word until you see the finished painting, and you can see for yourself what I mean. You'll see that you can believe in me.”

She turned and stood on the corner, waiting for a delivery wagon to pass by. The horse's hooves thudded in the road; the wheels creaked. A gust of wind caught the edge of her hat, swirling with the first snowflakes of winter, and as she grabbed the crown with her hand and started across Fifth Avenue, she heard Harry's voice floating behind her.

“Excellent! I'll see you tonight!”

J
ULY 1920

Lucy

“Shouldn't you be putting on your glad rags?”

“My—?” Lucy was elbows deep in a pile of documents, looking for the latest rider to the Merola contract.

“Your sparkling raiment.” Philip Schuyler rested a hand against the edge of the desk, his gold signet ring tapping against the dark wood. “Or, at the very least, your dinner dress.”

Lucy looked at him blankly. “I don't have a dinner dress.”

That wasn't a problem for Philip Schuyler. Her employer was elegant in evening dress, his white tie impeccably tied, discreet mother-of-pearl and ebony studs marching the way up his lean chest. The stark black and white set off his light tan, his blond good looks.

“Then you'd best find one, hadn't you?” he said, and, for a mad moment, Lucy's mouth went dry and the color rushed to her cheeks as bedtime upon bedtime of fairy tales came flooding back to her.

But it was only in fairy tales that Cinderella was invited to the ball.

Mr. Schuyler said jovially, “Have you forgotten? You're wining and dining that art dealer fellow, Ravenel—or dining, at least.” He pulled a long face. “I regret to report that Delmonico's sold off their wine cellar last year thanks to those Philistines in Congress.”

Delmonico's. Ravenel. Lucy drew in a deep breath, thankful for the pile of documents that ostensibly demanded her attention, thankful for the heat of the day that explained away the flush in her cheeks.

Thank goodness Mr. Schuyler had no inkling of what she had been thinking! What a fool she would look, daydreaming of being plucked from her papers by the prince, like Cinderella from the ashes.

Lucy concentrated on shuffling the documents on the desk into a neat pile. “But, surely, with everything that needs to be done—”

“Merola can wait a day.” Mr. Schuyler plucked the pile out of her hands and held the papers just out of her reach. “You did forget, didn't you? Don't try to lie to me. Your cheeks tell all.”

“I—” Lucy made a grab for the papers, but he dropped them onto the blotter with a decisive thunk. “We've had so much to do.”

And it was true. They'd both been working every hour God gave them, at the office before Miss Meechum, there long after the janitor made the rounds of the hall, his mop bumping gently against the woodwork. Mr. Schuyler might play at being a dilettante, but when the situation demanded—and it had demanded—he had buckled down with the sort of fierce concentration that Lucy had once imagined that he would accord only a tennis match or an act at the opera.

And it was the opera tonight, wasn't it? In the scrum of work, of papers to be typed and retyped, every clause a crisis, every comma crucial, Lucy had forgotten about Mr. Schuyler's engagement to see
Tosca
with his stepmother.

And her own with Mr. John Ravenel, the art dealer from South Carolina.

Or was it North Carolina? Lucy couldn't remember. She'd never been as far south as Jersey.

Mr. Schuyler grinned at her. With mock seriousness, he said, “Don't deny me my moment of triumph.” His eyes meeting hers, he added softly, “It's a relief to know that you aren't entirely perfect.”

“Far from it,” said Lucy repressively, putting the lid on the treacherous flutters his words made her feel. Mr. Schuyler flirted as easily as he breathed. It was a habit with him. And she'd be a fool to assume otherwise. “I'm just as fallible as anyone else.”

A secretary didn't fall for her employer. Her engaged employer, Lucy reminded herself.

Mr. Schuyler didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. “The reservation is for eight, which means you have plenty of time to don your gay apparel.” Reaching into one of the desk drawers, he dropped a pile of bills on the desk. “That should cover your cab fare.”

Bad enough that she was going out to dinner, alone, with a strange man. But the pile of bills on the table . . . They made her feel cheap.

Lucy's shoulders stiffened beneath the boxy fabric of her suit. “I couldn't possibly—”

Mr. Schuyler chucked her under the chin. “You're doing this for the firm, remember? It's a business expense. A legitimate business expense,” he added, his lips quirking.

Despite herself, Lucy couldn't quite help smiling back. She'd had some queries about his expense reports when they'd started working together last week. “You mean like your greens fees?”

“Just like my greens fees,” said Mr. Schuyler solemnly. He pushed the bills toward Lucy. “Don't make me slip it into your purse.”

This money, Lucy was quite sure, wasn't coming out of the firm
coffers. This was direct from Mr. Schuyler. She knew what her grandmother would say about that. But . . .

“All right,” said Lucy, and, belatedly, “Thank you.”

Averting her eyes, she scooped up the pile of singles. During the day, working together, Mr. Schuyler's tie askew, his hair rumpled, a mess of papers between them, it was easy to forget the difference in their stations.

But not now, with the detritus of his largesse on the desk between them.

“Righto, then. I'm off.” He whistled an unfamiliar tune as he rooted through his pockets.

“Here.” Lucy scooped up his opera glasses from the desk and handed them to him.

“You're a treasure, Miss Young.” Mr. Schuyler swirled a white silk scarf around his neck. “What would I do without you?”

“Squint,” Lucy said succinctly.

Mr. Schuyler chuckled. “Touché, my dear. Touché.” He paused with a hand on the doorjamb, the late-afternoon sunlight slanting through the window turning his hair to gold. “By the by, will you do me a small favor? Our little substitution—I haven't mentioned it to Ravenel. Or Mr. Cromwell. If either of them asks, you will tell them that something madly important came up at the last minute, won't you?”

Lucy felt the bottom fall out of her stomach. “But I thought— You said you'd arranged—”

Her employer deliberately misunderstood her. “You're all set at Delmonico's. You'll find the reservation in my name. Just tell them to put it on my account.” He grinned. “Or, better yet, on Mr. Cromwell's. Have a steak for me!”

And before Lucy could protest, he was gone, sauntering down the
hallway, his hands in his pockets, a whistle on his lips—and every head in the stenographic pool turning to watch him go.

There were times when Lucy dearly wished that she were the cursing kind. Since she wasn't, she contented herself with stomping back into Mr. Schuyler's office and closing the door with a muted but decided click.

Wonderful. Not only was she having dinner with a strange man; she was having dinner with a strange man who was expecting her employer.

On the plus side, thought Lucy, staring tight-lipped at the impeccable countenance of Miss Didi Shippen, it might be a very short dinner.

And she had the office to herself.

The week had been such a blur of work that she hadn't even had time to think of her own private quest, much less pursue it. Mr. Schuyler might have grumbled, but he had been there, right along with her, from dawn to dusk. He'd even taken his lunch at his desk—sandwiches and coffee from the deli down the block. Lucy had made sure that the man at the deli remembered to leave off the mustard and put two sugars and cream in the coffee, and she'd always brought a piece of something sweet as well, coffee cake or cookies that were hard and flavorless compared to the ones her grandmother made, but which Mr. Schuyler received with exaggerated exclamations of gratitude.

Just as he would for Meg, Lucy reminded herself. He was charming, and he wasn't quite the dilettante he appeared, but that didn't change the fact that he was a means to an end, and there wasn't the least reason she should feel guilty about using him to get to the Pratt files. Not that she did feel guilty.

Or maybe just a little. She could feel those dollar bills burning a hole in her purse. It felt wrong taking money from him.

She knew what her grandmother would say.

Like mother, like daughter.

Enough. Lucy walked briskly to the file cabinet. To anyone watching, there was nothing amiss, nothing at all. Just a secretary working late.

For all her other shortcomings, Meg did keep the files in order, everything sternly alphabetized, not a letter out of place.
N
 . . .
O
 . . .
P
was all the way down on the bottom of the third rank of cabinets. Lucy had to kneel down on the worn carpet to scrabble through the files. She could feel the wool of the carpet prickling through her stockings, leaving marks on her knees. But there it was, just where it was meant to be. Pratt.

The file was a substantial one. The papers didn't spill over—Meg had been too well organized for that—but they strained against the cardboard confines.

Lucy resisted the urge to sit back on her haunches and scour through it then and there. That would look odd if Miss Meechum or one of the junior associates were to pop their heads around the door. Instead, she carried it over to the desk, turning it carefully so that the label faced away from the door. One folder looked just like another.

Oh, just the correspondence relating to the Merola contract,
she imagined herself saying.
Mr. Schuyler wanted me to find the draft language for the third rider.

But the door remained chastely closed.

Quickly, quickly. Hands shaking, Lucy drew the papers out of their cardboard casing. Invoices and accountings, that was what most of it seemed to be, and none of it older than—she flipped hastily through the pile—1912. The Pratt trust paid out monies quarterly to Prunella Schuyler, nee Pratt. The correspondence consisted largely of bills from tradesmen, demanding payment from the Pratt trust, and formal letters from Mrs. Schuyler, demanding advances on next quarter's payment. Mrs. Schuyler, it seemed, lived considerably outside her income.

It was an income that would have kept Lucy in stockings and carfare for a very long time, but, judging from the documentation, Mrs. Schuyler hadn't the least problem blazing through an entire quarter's allowance in one visit to Cartier.

Fascinating, in its way, but none of her affair. Tearing herself away from descriptions of diamond clips and sapphire and emerald brooches, Lucy set the pile relating to the Pratt trust aside. Which didn't leave terribly much. There were papers concerning the sale of the house, all of the proceeds from which had gone into the Pratt trust.

Well, what had she expected? Henry August Pratt's personal diary? Letters to his lawyer?
Dear Mr. Cromwell: My wastrel son has impregnated a guest in our home
 . . .

Had her mother been a guest? She must have been. She knew the house too well, had described it too fully, to have been a mere visitor.

But who was she? Strange to be asking that about one's own mother. Lucy knew her mother as a brush of serge, as her small hands clutched her mother's skirt; she knew her as the scent of lavender; as a low, sweet voice singing lullabies, and later, much later, as a quiet, withdrawn presence, the sound of pages in a book being turned, a darkened room, a cough that wouldn't go away.

Sometimes, Lucy wondered if the mother she had known was only a shadow, if the real woman had been left somewhere, across the bridge in Manhattan. There had been a hint of something vital about her, but only a hint, like the impression of a flower in an old book, long after the actual petals had faded and crumbled away.

Her mother loved her; she had said so, time and again. But Lucy had never been able to shake the feeling that there was someone her mother loved more, someone who had taken the best of her, leaving only a husk for Lucy and her father.

Lucy's knuckles were white against the dark wood of the desk. She forced herself to relax her hands, finger by finger.

The file
, Lucy reminded herself. She still had a dinner dress to acquire, a client to charm. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, scrunching the old hurts down, as far as they would go.

There wasn't much left in the file. Miscellaneous financial documents—apparently, Mr. Pratt's investments hadn't fared that well in the nineties—and, at the very bottom, a copy of Henry August Pratt's will.

It was surprisingly short. There were no charitable bequests, no recognition of old servants. In fact, the only legatee—the sole legatee—was Pratt's daughter, Prunella.

Had she missed a page? Lucy leafed back through the closely typed pages. No. It was all in order.
To my daughter, Prunella
 . . . and then a complicated spate of legalese, which, when translated to English, seemed to be the provision of a trust that kept her from touching any of the principal. There were four trustees, of whom one was Philip Schuyler.

There were no bequests to his wife or to his other children. It was as if they had never been.

One son had died, hadn't he? Lucy struggled to remember. A bar fight on the Lower East Side? The papers had only hinted, but it had been something vaguely sordid. An angry husband?