The Forgotten Room(31)
“She wasn’t clumsy,” said Harry. “Gus was the clumsy ox who knocked into her. Are you all right, Olive?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How on earth do you keep all their names straight?” said Mrs. Pratt. “Especially the new ones.”
“Not difficult at all when they’re as pretty as this one,” said Mr. Pratt. “Eh, Olive?”
Olive’s cheeks burned. She righted herself, steadied the sloshing of the bowl, and then hesitated at August’s unpredictable elbow, not certain whether he had actually rejected the peas or forgotten she was there.
Mrs. Pratt said icily, “Well, as far as I’m concerned, I can’t tell them apart. I suppose it’s different for you gentlemen.” There was a slight ironic weight on the word gentlemen.
“For God’s sake, Gus, spoon yourself some peas and let poor Olive continue on her way,” said Harry.
“Poor Olive, is it? Friend of yours?” demanded Gus, in his voice that sounded like cigar smoke passed over gravel. He shared Harry’s golden good looks, but already his excessive habits were beginning to grind down and tarnish the gifts nature had bestowed on him. He ate too much and drank too much and—judging from that voice—smoked too much. In another hour, he would be off in a cab, visiting a series of establishments and acquaintances that knew him all too well, each one lower and rougher than the last. In another year, his last football season a distant memory, he would start churning all that robust muscle into fat.
Meanwhile, August, ignorant of either the corpulent future that awaited him or of Olive’s nearby disapproval, plunged the silver serving spoon deep into the creamed peas, carried them perilously to his plate, and went back for another spoonful.
“It’s not so different, is it?” Mr. Pratt was saying to his wife. “A gentleman notices a pretty woman, and I understand it’s much the same for the ladies. Noticing a pretty fellow. Don’t you think, Mrs. Pratt?”
Mrs. Pratt pressed her lips together and stared at her plate.
Mr. Pratt smiled and turned to his daughter. “Isn’t that so, Prunella? Your fiancé is handsome enough, for all he’s twice as old as you are.”
“Yes, Papa,” said Miss Pratt. That was all Olive had ever heard her say: Yes, Papa and Yes, Mama, and sometimes the opposite, when the occasion called for respectful negation. If Prunella Pratt had formed any chance opinions of her own in her eighteen years on this earth, she kept them to herself. The other housemaids liked to moan about her—she’ll catch you out; she likes to stir up trouble—but housemaids were always moaning about something, weren’t they?
“You see, my dear?” Mr. Pratt directed his jowly, bland face back to his wife. “It seems a woman’s head can be turned by a handsome face after all. Who’d have thought it?”
“Speaking of Prunella’s unfortunate victim,” Harry said, a little quickly, “does he have any idea what’s waiting for him at this engagement ball you’re planning? I happened to meet him yesterday over at Perry Belmont’s place, and he seems to be under the impression that it’s just a small family New Year’s Eve kind of thing. Bottle of champagne and canapés and everybody kisses at midnight. Won’t he be surprised by those swans? Ha-ha. Why, thank you, Olive. I believe I would enjoy a dollop of those delightful peas you’re offering.”
“You should be careful how you speak to me,” Olive said, closing the door behind her.
Across the room, Harry was busying himself with his chair and easel and a set of charcoals. He was either nonchalant about her arrival—and she almost hadn’t done it, almost hadn’t come at all—or trying exceptionally hard to seem as if he were. “Careful? How?”
Olive leaned back against the door and took in the scene before her, not wanting to miss a single detail in her haste, in her anticipation, which choked up her throat and made her fingertips tingle. “Your family will think there’s something between us.”
Harry straightened and turned toward her, wearing that broad and radiant smile that made her heart freeze in her chest. He had changed into a simple white shirt and brown trousers, terribly bohemian. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, and his teeth were as white as his shirt. “There is something between us.”
“Don’t be a fool. You know what I mean. I’ll be dismissed on the spot.” She could hardly get the words out, he was so beautiful.
Harry put his hands on his hips and tilted his head. His smile dimmed, almost mortal. “Olive,” he said slowly, “do you think for a single moment that I would let them hurt you in any way?”
And that was it. For the past several days, and especially the past few hours, Olive had argued with herself endlessly about Harry Pratt. Whether she was simply blinded by his pretty face and his pretty manners and his flattery and his social position, or whether this attraction she felt for him was genuine. Whether she should visit him again in his studio, or ignore him and continue on her mission to rescue her father’s memory and reputation. Whether she was right to be in this room at all, whether she was being weak or brave, whether Harry was a good man or simply a good seducer, whether Harry meant her salvation or her downfall.
And now, as he stood there before her in his billowing white shirt, glowing gold from the lamplight, surrounded by canvas and paint and brick walls and old furniture, in that beautiful and intimate room her father had designed at the top of the Pratt mansion, she realized that not only did she no longer care about the answers; she couldn’t even remember the questions.