The Forgotten Room(47)

She could hear his voice through the door, not the words themselves, but the rhythm of it, a crisp staccato entirely unlike his usual bantering tones.

Coffee cup balanced in one hand, Lucy gently turned the knob with the other, just as Mr. Schuyler said, “What the devil were you thinking?”

Mercifully, the words were directed to his stepmother and not to Lucy. Lucy didn’t think she wanted to be on the receiving end of that tone. He sounded like a man at the end of his rope, a good-natured man pushed to cracking.

Seeing Lucy with the coffee, he gave her a curt nod and gestured to her to set it down on the desk, mouthing, Thank you, before saying sharply, “Not this time, Prunella.”

Lucy wondered what Mrs. Schuyler had landed on her stepson’s lap this time. Another Cartier bill past due? A demand that he squire her to a charity ball? Over the past few weeks, Lucy had seen Mr. Schuyler deal with both of those scenarios and more, fielding his stepmother’s demands with patience and humor—if, occasionally, with a roll of the eyes.

But not this time. Whatever it was, Prunella Pratt Schuyler appeared to have gotten on her stepson’s last nerve.

Mr. Schuyler’s other telephone buzzed. Lucy picked it up. “Mr. Schuyler’s office.”

“Miss Young?” It was the breathy girl in the telephone exchange. Lucy didn’t know them by sight, but she knew them by voice. This voice sounded like a cross between a pinup and a consumptive. “I have Miss Shippen for Mr. Schuyler.”

She said Miss Shippen the way one might say Mary Pickford, with that same tone of breathy reverence. Or maybe it was just that she made everything sound breathy.

Didi Shippen’s beautiful face smirked at Lucy from the silver frame on Mr. Schuyler’s desk.

“Just a moment,” said Lucy. “Miss Shippen for you.”

Philip Schuyler broke into whatever his stepmother was saying with a terse, “I have to go.” To Lucy, he said, “Have them put her through.”

Lucy could hear Prunella Schuyler’s voice down the line, squawking in well-bred indignation.

“Here,” she said, and held out the earpiece to him. Usually, Philip Schuyler took the base of the phone in his hand, turning away slightly in his chair, his voice dropping indulgently as he said, “Hello, sweetheart.”

This time, he picked up the receiver with a terse, “Yes, Didi?”

He sounded less than thrilled. Or maybe that was just the aftermath of his conversation with his stepmother.

Without bothering to put a hand over the mouthpiece, he said, “Miss Young, do you have the Kiplinger contract?”

Lucy took the hint. “Right away, sir.”

Loudly, Philip Schuyler said, “They want it tomorrow morning, remember.”

“Tomorrow morning—but I thought—”

“Yes, I’ll be right with you, Miss Young.” Philip Schuyler held a finger to his lips. Ostensibly to Lucy, he said, “I know you need those documents initialed. Sorry, Didi; we’re very busy here just now.”

Quietly, Lucy moved toward the office door, ignoring Philip Schuyler’s flapping hand. She didn’t like the idea of helping Mr. Schuyler lie to his fiancée. Bad enough that she had lied to Mr. Ravenel for him.

Not that they were big lies, either of them. They were just little lies, lies of convenience. But maybe that was what made her so squirmy, knowing that a little lie could grow and grow until everything became a lie.

She was living proof of that.

Philip Schuyler was arguing with his fiancée, in a voice from which the smooth patina was beginning to rub off. “Tomorrow? But I— Yes, I know you told Mrs. Reinhardt, but . . . I can’t just— Bother it, Didi, they call it work for a reason. That’s what I do here; I work.”

An ominous pause. “I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to imply— Of course you come first, but . . . I can’t just drop everything.”

Lucy slipped out the door and back to her desk. Through the open doorway, she could hear Philip Schuyler desperately trying to get a word in, reduced to disjointed monosyllables. “But—I— Really, Didi! You can’t— Right. Fine.”

Down went the receiver, hard enough to send a jolt straight through to the girls at the switchboard.

Lucy rapidly began typing, as loud and as fast as she could.

The door of the office crashed open. “I can’t take another minute in this damn—this blasted office.”

“Sir?” Lucy said, looking up from her typewriter, the efficient secretary ready to leap into action.

Philip Schuyler gestured imperiously at her. “Come on. Get your hat. We’re going out.”

“But . . . sir.” Lucy’s typing faded from a rapid staccato to a muted peck. “I thought you wanted the Kiplinger contract.”

“It will wait until tomorrow.”

Lucy raised her brows. “I thought you said they wanted it tomorrow.”

“They want it next Thursday.” Philip Schuyler grabbed the typewriter cover and dropped it over the machine, half-written page and all, as Lucy made a noise of protest. “I lied. Come on. I promised you the biggest martini in Manhattan, didn’t I?”

“I’m not sure if it was a promise or a threat,” said Lucy with some asperity. She was going to have to type that page all over now; the heavy cover had crumpled it beyond repair.