The Forgotten Room(73)

John Ravenel didn’t mock her. “My mother was an artist’s model.” A rueful smile creased his lips. “Well, my father’s model. She made pictures that made history. And, in the end, she claims her greatest success was making a home for us. She made order out of chaos. She kept us all safe and fed. She kept my father—and me—alive. She’s the strongest woman I know. She wouldn’t find your ambition petty at all. She would admire you for it.” His eyes met hers. “I admire you for it.”

It was like staring at the sun. Lucy looked away, down at her shoes. Such sensible, workaday shoes. “You’re a kind man, Mr. Ravenel.”

His brown eyes crinkled at the corners. “My mama tried to raise me right. Whether she succeeded . . . not everyone would agree.” There was something grim about the way he said it. But before Lucy could inquire further, he said, “Shall we see if we can find something to eat? All this soul baring is making me hungry.”

Astonishingly, so was she. They said confession was good for the soul, but she’d never realized it also stimulated the stomach. “I wouldn’t mind an ice-cream sandwich,” Lucy admitted, adding shyly, “Thank you for taking me here. I never knew this was here.”

John Ravenel stepped out into the sunshine, holding the door open for her. “It hasn’t been here long. Mrs. Whitney only opened the studio club two years ago.” Letting the door swing shut, he offered Lucy his arm. “One of these days, I’d love to do something similar in Charleston.”

Charleston. The name hit Lucy like a slap. It felt like Mr. Ravenel had always been here, would always be here.

Trying to sound casual, she said, “Are you going back to Charleston soon?”

There was a pause before he answered. “I’ve booked my berth on the train for Tuesday.”

“Tuesday!” Lucy tripped over a bit of loose paving. “That soon?”

Mr. Ravenel steadied her effortlessly, his hand on her elbow. “I’ve been here longer than I intended. There are . . . responsibilities at home that I’ve left too long.” He snaked a sideways glance at her. “What do you say, Miss Young? Do you fancy a trip to Charleston?”

“Oh, certainly,” mocked Lucy, even as her heart screamed with loss. Which was mad, wasn’t it? She hardly knew him. “Are you looking for a secretary? A manager for your gallery perhaps? I might be needing a new job.”

And that, she realized grimly, was nothing more than the truth. The bright day seemed to darken; the sunlight was hard and flat, the heat itchy and oppressive. Her job, the job for which she had schemed—she couldn’t face the thought of facing her employer.

She had no home in New York, only an overpriced attic room in a building that meant nothing to her. Her mother’s voice didn’t whisper from the walls. Her lost father wasn’t leaping out of the woodwork to enfold her in his arms and sweep her into society with a capital S.

And John Ravenel was leaving New York.

There would be no more walks in Central Park, no rides on the carousel. He would go to Charleston, and she . . . she would look for another job, another room. And on and on and on.

They had wandered their way to Washington Square. Lucy could see courting couples, arm in arm, taking advantage of the nice day.

John Ravenel came to an abrupt stop just inside the entrance to the park, swinging her around to face him.

“Lucy—” It was the first time he’d called her by her name. “I know it’s mad, but—what if you did come to Charleston?”

Lucy stared at him. The sun was behind him, casting his face into shadow, dazzling her eyes. “I—I’ve never been south of Brooklyn.”

“We’re not so savage, really. There’s indoor plumbing and all.” Together, they moved aside to let others pass. “I never meant to be in New York for more than a week. And then I saw you and— It’s a damnable complication. It’s not anything I intended. But it’s there. Isn’t it?”

He didn’t have to explain what it was. It was there between them, that invisible bond, that strange sense of ease, as though she had known him always. As if her life would be immeasurably the worse for not having him in it.

“Oh, yes,” whispered Lucy. “Yes.”

It was inexplicable, and illogical, but it was there.

His hands grasped hers, pressing tightly through her gloves, holding on to her like a lifeline. “It takes a nerve, I know, to ask you to leave everything you know. But I can’t face the thought of never seeing you again.”

It was the sun in her eyes, the sun dazzling her, making her lightheaded. Only it wasn’t. It was Mr. Ravenel, his nearness, these mad, wonderful words. “Mr. Ravenel—”

“John.”

“John.” Such a prosaic name, but it sounded like music on her lips. They had only just met. She scarcely knew him. But that wasn’t true, was it? She did know him, somehow, deep down in her bones. “John, I—”

“Wait.” His hands were on her shoulders, holding her and holding her away all at the same time. “Before you say anything, there are two things you should know, two things I have to tell you.”

“Do you have eight wives in the attic like Bluebeard?” Lucy couldn’t imagine anything that would blunt the incredible pull she felt toward him.