In the Shadow of Lakecrest(37)

“No, please don’t,” I said.

“If you’re sure,” Matthew said.

I nodded. “I invited Blanche,” I said. “Hope that’s all right.”

“Of course,” Matthew asked. “One more won’t hurt, will it, Mum?”

“Two more,” I said. “She has a beau, Billy. They could stay for the weekend.”

Marjorie snickered. “Why not invite the whole Pharaoh’s Club revue?”

Hannah uttered a sharp tsk. “If Kate would like Blanche and her gentleman friend to stay, then they’re welcome.” She patted my hand. “Whatever you want, my dear.”

She was practically groveling. That might be the one bright spot of this pregnancy.

Blanche and Billy arrived late Saturday afternoon, in time for a quick tour of Lakecrest before the rest of the guests arrived. With his dark hair and dark eyes—echoes of Rudy Valentino—Billy made a dashing impression, and he was friendly and good-natured, perfect for Blanche. I genuinely hoped things would work out for them.

Billy’s eyes got wider and wider as we entered each new room. “I can’t believe you live here!” he exclaimed.

“I can’t believe it, either.”

“It’s swell. Like something out of the pictures.” His cheerful enjoyment made me less self-conscious, and I liked him even more.

Marjorie, not surprisingly, made straight for Billy when she joined us later for drinks.

“Shame you didn’t bring your saxophone,” Marjorie told him. “Wouldn’t that be a hoot, jazz in the sitting room?”

“I’m glad to have the night off for a change,” Billy said.

Despite Marjorie’s flirtatious banter, Billy stuck by Blanche’s side as the rest of the guests trickled in. A good sign. The group Hannah had assembled was a ragtag assortment of East Ridge society and Lemont Industries managers and their dowdy wives, none of whom did much to liven up the conversation. Blanche and Billy were the only guests younger than forty until the final couple arrived, not long before supper was announced. A husband and wife, cheeks flushed from the cold, apologizing as Hannah made quick introductions.

“Mr. and Mrs. Victor Monroe. Our new neighbors.”

Matthew extended his hand. “So you’re the ones who bought the old Finley place. How’s it suiting you?”

“It’s a palace!” Victor said, his voice as powerful as his handshake. “You get so much more land for your money here, compared to New York.”

I looked at his wife. Small frame, mousy hair, delicate features. I remembered the woman I’d seen standing forlornly in the snow from the road. She didn’t seem to recognize me, but why would she? I’d been so far away.

“Kate Lemont,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Eva. Thank you for having us.”

“How are you settling in?”

Eva spoke quietly but precisely, like someone who carefully considered each word. “All right, I guess. We’ve got three little ones, and our old nanny didn’t want to move, so I’ve been busy hiring a new staff. Training the maids how we like things done. You know how it is.”

Did I?

“Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” I offered. I couldn’t imagine she’d ever need anything from me, what with all that staff, but it seemed like the polite thing to say.

Before I could come up with any more stilted conversation, I saw Hannah beckon me over and excused myself.

“Kate, this is Dr. Westbrook,” she said, indicating an elderly bearded man. “He’s a specialist in obstetrics at Northwestern.”

Obstetrics? Hannah had told me not to talk about the baby, saying it was bad form to acknowledge my condition so early.

“An old friend of my father’s,” Hannah explained.

Nodding at me, the doctor said, “You’re too young to have known Dr. Rieger, of course.”

“Oh, I’ve heard a great deal.” I’d let Hannah wonder what I meant by that.

“A giant in his field,” Dr. Westbrook said. “I wonder what he’d say about all the nonsense that’s taken over in recent years.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The blather about dreams. Blaming all psychoses on terrible mothers.”

“So you don’t subscribe to Dr. Freud’s theories?”

“They’re quite dangerous!” Dr. Westbrook exclaimed. “Anxiousness, melancholy—these conditions have a physical cause, and they demand a medical solution. It’s very dangerous to suggest otherwise.”

“Dr. Westbrook,” Hannah interrupted, “given our families’ long friendship, there’s something I wanted to ask. Dear Kate recently informed us she is expecting”—the last word whispered, with a conspiratorial raise of the eyebrows—“and I hope you’d do us the honor of looking after her.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Dr. Westbrook said.

“I already have a doctor.”

“Nonsense,” Hannah admonished. “Dr. Westbrook has delivered hundreds of babies. You’re a very lucky girl.”

Dr. Westbrook reached into his jacket and pulled a calling card from the inside breast pocket. “Phone my office on Monday to make an appointment.”