The Forgotten Room(17)

Mr. Schuyler’s gold cuff links glittered in the light of the window. They were very new, with his monogram engraved with suitable flourishes and curlicues. “It shouldn’t be too onerous,” he said encouragingly. “Just a few cocktails . . . dinner . . . Keep him happy.”

Lucy could hear her grandmother’s voice. No better than she should be . . . going out to work like a man.

She’d had employers like that before. But she hadn’t expected it of Philip Schuyler.

“Would you have asked the same of Meg?”

“Meg,” said Mr. Schuyler firmly, “is a great girl, but she has an accent that could curdle cream. And that unfortunate fringe. We’re trying to entertain Ravenel, not torture him—even if he is being a damned nuisance.”

Just what kind of entertainment did he have in mind?

Taking her silence for assent, Mr. Schuyler leaned back in his chair. “It’s only for Friday night. We just need someone to hold his hand, make sure he has a good time.”

Lucy fought a wave of disappointment. She’d so wanted to make a good impression. But not at the expense of her self-respect.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Schuyler,” she said, and there was a hint of steel in her voice. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to find someone else. I’m not a good-time girl. And I don’t hold hands.”

“Not even for the greater good of Cromwell, Polk and Moore?” The charm was turned on full bore.

Politely but firmly, Lucy said, “I am happy to be of service to the firm—during business hours.”

She felt sick to her stomach—she couldn’t lose this job, not now—but made herself meet his eyes, coolly, levelly.

“Well, then.” Sitting back in his chair, Mr. Schuyler regarded her with speculation, and just a hint of admiration. In a very different voice, he said, “Miss Young, I’m not asking you to do anything I wouldn’t myself. I’d trade with you, if I could. What would you rather? Steak at Delmonico’s or opera with my stepmother?”

Daringly, Lucy said, “I’ve never seen Tosca.”

“Don’t tempt me.” More seriously, he said, “Are you sure you won’t reconsider? I give you my word that if Ravenel doesn’t behave like a gentleman, I will personally see that he never does business with this firm again.”

Something about the way he said it made Lucy think of the knight her mother had painted for her, the knight in the mural in the Pratt house, raising his sword against all comers.

“Well . . .”

Mr. Schuyler saw his advantage. “If you do this,” he said fervently, “I will owe you the biggest martini Manhattan has to offer.”

Lucy looked at him from under her lashes. “Martinis are illegal.”

“Not if you know the right people.” Bees from the trees, Lucy thought dizzily. This was the world her mother had known, a world where people knew people and the ordinary rules didn’t apply, a world away from the mundanities of making sure the rolls were shaped and bread was baked. “What do you say, Miss Young? A dinner in exchange for a drink?”

It was about winning his confidence, Lucy reminded herself. About winning his confidence and winning her way into those files.

“All right,” she said slowly, and saw the expression of triumph on Philip Schuyler’s well-bred face. “But only this once.”

What was one dinner, after all?





Seven




JUNE 1944


Kate


I felt a meager ray of sun on my face but kept my eyes shut just one more moment; one more moment to extend my dream where I was lying in my comfortable bed in my comfortable house with my mother and father in the room next to mine, my dog, Sassy, sleeping at my feet. There was no war, and no shell-shocked soldiers with missing limbs stumbling through the city, no blackout windows shutting out the light. It was a memory of when I was a girl, a memory of before, and my exhaustion of the last week was making me far too susceptible to having hopeless dreams.

A scratching sound made its way through my dream state, and briefly I thought it was Sassy’s nails on the wood floor of my old bedroom, trying to dig her way to China. It was a habit Sassy had had since she’d been a puppy, and one my mother would scold her for, usually followed by a threat that she would put Sassy out on the street. But we both knew that Sassy was beloved by both of us, and spoiled rotten to boot, and the worst that would happen would be Sassy getting another soup bone to gnaw on in the kitchen.

But Sassy was long gone, a victim of a mule pulling a milk wagon that had been spooked by the honking of a car horn. I opened my eyes, staring at the faded chintz of the chaise longue that had been my bed for the last four nights, sure now that the scratching wasn’t in my head but most likely in the walls. Rats!

I catapulted out of the chaise, catching the hem of my lab coat on the unruly spring, and miraculously landed on the floor with both feet. With one giant leap, I reached behind my desk for the cast-iron skillet that I’d found in the corner of the attic room. Because of its heft and telltale dings on the back of it, I assumed it had probably been used as an effective weapon against all intruders, not just the furry four-legged variety.

I paused, listening for the scratching again, trying to find which wall it was coming from and hoping the rat wasn’t too big. Not that I was afraid of something like a rat, just that the large ones made such a mess and took time to clean up.