The Forgotten Room(63)

“What?” she asked over the sound of a crowded bus jerking its way down Fifth Avenue.

“Never mind,” I said, latching my pail.

“So,” Margie said, blowing out a puff of smoke. “How’s your captain?”

“He’s not my captain. His fiancée is here. From Charleston. I doubt I’ll be seeing much of him until he leaves.” Are you going to let me finish? I kept hearing his words, asking me to let him finish his sketch of me. And each time I heard them I had to remind myself to say no.

“Um-hmm,” she said, a knowing smile tilting her lips.

I looked at her cigarette and she handed it to me. I took a long, calming drag, then handed it back to her. “He has a fiancée. Why would you think I’m interested in him?”

She looked at me fully. “Because when you talk about him there’s something about your eyes.”

There’s something about your eyes. I startled. “He said the same thing. When he told me he wanted to finish the sketch of me.”

She raised a plucked eyebrow as she took another drag from her cigarette and didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

Eager to change the conversation, I checked my watch. “I need to get going. But first I need to ask a favor.”

She leaned back, narrowing her eyes. “This won’t involve me going on a blind date in your place, will it? The last time that happened I got stranded on Coney Island with a short, bald man who only spoke Russian and called me Martzie.”

“I know. And I still owe you. This favor doesn’t involve blind dates or Russians—promise. I need you to look up a name for me in the newspaper archives. Harry Pratt. He might be an artist. I found a few of his sketches in the attic, and I believe his family might have once owned the hospital building. He might be related to Prunella J. Pratt—I found a ball gown in an armoire with her name embroidered on the inside.”

“Prunella?”

“I know. It’s not the sort of name that rolls easily off the tongue, is it? I had an aunt named Prunella. Must have been popular way back when.”

Margie took one last puff of her cigarette, then crushed it under the toe of her shoe. “Thank goodness its popularity had waned by the time we came along.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “Why are you so interested in the Pratts?”

“I’m not really sure. Curiosity, maybe. The sketches are so good that I’m wondering if he might have become a renowned artist.”

“And?” she prompted. Margie was the one person in the world who knew me enough to know when I was holding something back.

“And I think I’ve heard the name Pratt before. I didn’t think so at first, but then I had a memory of my mother and me standing in front of the building when I was small. I think she called it the Pratt mansion.”

“Interesting,” she said, raising both eyebrows. “I rather like searching through the archives. If I turn up something interesting, I might even forgive you for the Russian.”

“You’re a peach. I owe you dinner.”

“I’ll put it on your tab.”

We hugged good-bye and went our separate ways—she back to the library while I headed to the hospital, trying to lose myself in the sounds of the city instead of hearing Cooper’s voice echoing in my head. There’s something about your eyes.

I was reaching for the outer door of the hospital when I heard my name called.

“Dr. Schuyler?”

I recognized the soft Southern voice before I turned around, and prepared myself. “Good afternoon, Miss Middleton. What can I do for you?” She wore an elegant light blue suit that matched the color of her eyes, the tightly fitted bodice hugging her tiny waist. A stylish hat with netting sat perched at an angle on top of her neat chignon, and impeccable white gloves and silk stockings completed the look. I tried not to think about my own bare legs and hands, or straggly hair that stuck to my forehead after my walk from the park. Sighing inwardly, I remembered Dr. Greeley saying that he wanted me to make myself available to Miss Middleton, to answer any of her questions about where to eat. And shop. Like I would know. I doubted we ate or shopped at the same kinds of establishments.

Her blue eyes remained icy despite her smile. “I was hoping we might have a chance to chat—woman to woman.”

“Of course,” I said, trying to remember the names of all the shops Margie was always telling me were the places she’d go once she married her rich husband. “Let’s go inside and out of the sun . . .”

“No. I’d rather not. I’d prefer privacy. Why don’t we walk down the block together?”

I looked at my watch, not bothering to hide my impatience. Some of us weren’t women of leisure who didn’t march to the hour hands of a clock all day. “All right. But I’m afraid I can’t be long. I’m due back in five minutes.”

Her smile widened. “Not to worry. What I have to say won’t take long.”

Attempting to hide my reluctance, I walked toward her, her arm claiming mine as soon as I was close enough. We began to walk in the same direction I’d just come from, our sides pressed against each other as if she were afraid I might try to escape.

“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” she asked as we strolled leisurely down the sidewalk.