The Forgotten Room(35)



All too late, Lucy saw the trap she had walked into. “I didn’t mean like that,” she said quickly. “I would hardly—”

Mr. Ravenel looked at her quizzically. “Are all New Yorkers as leery of compliments as you?”

“Are all Southerners as free with them as you?” Lucy countered.

“Only when they’re deserved.” John Ravenel’s voice was an intimate drawl. Above, the fans swirled lazily, sending a pleasant draft of cool air down the back of Lucy’s neck. The air was sweet with wisteria and hydrangeas, the light low and soothing.

“It’s not polite to tease,” said Lucy sternly. “I thought Southern gentlemen were supposed to be the soul of chivalry.”

“Ah, but you’re a Yankee.” John Ravenel grinned, a pirate’s grin, all white teeth. His smile faded as he looked at her. He was studying her as though she were a painting he couldn’t quite place, a work of art without a signature. But all he said was, “That’s a fine necklace you’re wearing. Might I ask where you acquired it?”

Lucy’s fingers closed protectively over the pendant. “It was my mother’s.”

For you . . . Her mother’s voice had been so weak Lucy could hardly hear her. She had reached beneath the pillow, fumbling at the sheet, falling back as a fit of coughing bent her double, red blood on white linen. Red blood and the glint of gold. For you . . .

Lucy had never seen the pendant before, never known her mother had it. It wasn’t the sort of thing worn by a baker’s wife in Brooklyn.

Father . . . Her mother had managed to gasp out. With the last of her feeble strength she pushed the pendant toward Lucy. Legacy.

And then Lucy had run for a glass of water, the pendant hastily thrust inside her skirt pocket, as though water might have any effect against those horrible hacking coughs, wrenching up her mother’s blood and guts, coughing, coughing, coughing. She’d had the pitcher in her hand, the glass in the other, when it happened, a gush of blood, a rattle of breath.

Harry . . .

And then nothing. Nothing but a pendant in her pocket and a name she didn’t know.

Mr. Ravenel nodded at the necklace. “A family heirloom?”

“Yes, something like that.” It was just polite chitchat, but Lucy found that she didn’t want to talk about her mother or her necklace. It was too close, too raw. “I understand that you wanted to speak to Mr. Schuyler about opening a gallery?”

For a moment, it looked as though Mr. Ravenel would pursue the topic of the necklace. But he relaxed back in his chair, saying, “I’ve been considering opening a branch of my gallery in New York, yes. But I may have misled Mr. Cromwell just a bit. My reasons for being in New York . . . They’re a bit more complicated than that.”

“Complexity is our specialty,” said Lucy brightly. “I’m sure, whatever it is, that Mr. Cromwell and Mr. Schuyler will do their utmost.”

Mr. Ravenel turned the glass around in his hand, candlelight sparkling off crystal. “It’s not necessarily a legal problem.”

The waiter appeared with a small procession of underlings, and for a moment, they were silent, as porcelain plates were whisked into place and water glasses refilled. The pale damask tablecloth was nearly invisible beneath bowls of green vegetables swimming in butter, golden-brown slabs of potatoes Anna, and large crimson lobster shells, brimming with a mysterious concoction of creamy lobster meat.

Mr. Ravenel waited until Lucy reached for her fork before lifting his own. “I suppose you could say this visit is something of a pilgrimage.”

“Artistic or otherwise?”

“Both, you could say.” Mr. Ravenel’s lips twisted in a reluctant smile. “I don’t mean to make a mystery of it. It’s just difficult to find a way to explain. Do you know of my father?”

“Only by reputation,” Lucy hedged. She hadn’t heard of him at all until a week ago. Her mother’s artistic interests had skipped a generation; she was her father’s daughter, efficient and practical.

At least, she had thought she was.

Mr. Ravenel’s calloused fingers traced the delicate stem of his water glass. “My father made his reputation painting in Cuba in the nineties. Pictures of village life, local festivities. When war broke out, he painted what he saw. Those same villages burnt-out, scarred, destroyed. There are some who credit his paintings with bringing the U.S. into the war with Spain.”

“That is . . . impressive.”

“I wouldn’t know. I was only just born at the time, and I was too concerned with making sure I had a regular milk supply. At least, as my mother tells it.” He glanced up, a hint of a smile on his face. “She had a time of it, getting us out. She dragged my father and his easel with one hand, and hauled me with the other, clear up to the Texas border.”

“She sounds like a formidable woman.”

“She is.” The fondness in his voice was unmistakable. “She’s currently the terror of several ladies’ auxiliary committees and a constant thorn in the side of my sister.”

“You’re lucky,” Lucy said. “To have a sister.”

She used to imagine brothers and sisters for herself, a whole household full of companions. But no matter how hard she wished or imagined, it was always just her. There had been a miscarriage—twins, Lucy knew, from what she had overheard from behind the door, clinging to her doll—and then nothing. Her parents had shared a room, but not, apparently, anything more.

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