The Forgotten Room(83)

In the spare glow of the single candle, Prunella’s youthful face took on a lurid shadow, and her pink lips and blue eyes lost all color. Olive felt as if something were clawing its way up the back of her head, a premonition of some kind, a warning of impending disaster. Don’t ask, she thought. Don’t ask.

“Don’t you want to know what it is, Olive? Dear, curious Olive. Don’t you want justice for your poor departed father?”

“I already know my father is innocent of anything you might accuse him of.”

Prunella giggled. “Oh, my. So you really don’t know. Well, I’ll give you a hint. It’s something to do with that pretty ruby necklace hanging there beneath your dress. A necklace that really belongs to someone else.”

Olive’s hand went instinctively to her throat. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I was wondering where that necklace had gone. It was in my mother’s jewel box, you know, and I begged her to let me wear it for my debut. She said I shouldn’t, that it was too flashy for a debutante. Too red.” Another giggle. “So I took it myself, when her back was turned. And I do believe I was right. That necklace set my white dress off to perfection. It set me apart from the other girls, and Mr. Schuyler asked me to dance three times. Father turned absolutely purple when he noticed, of course, but it was worth it. Really, it’s a shame you weren’t there. Your father attended, if I recall.”

“Yes, I recall.” Olive also recalled that her mother hadn’t wanted to go. She hadn’t anything to wear, she said.

“Such a sociable man, your father. Awfully charming. Well, I can tell you, he couldn’t take his eyes off my ruby, either. And the next morning, poof! It was gone.”

“You can’t possibly be suggesting my father stole your necklace.”

Prunella leaned forward, so that Olive could smell the excess of wine on her breath. “Well, he stole something; that’s for sure. I’ll leave you to decide what it was.”

The clawing sensation had turned into a kind of drumbeat, and Olive realized it was her own pulse, knocking in her ears.

Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

“That won’t be necessary. I know my father’s character very well.”

Prunella sniffed and straightened away from the desk. “As you like. I’d hate to murder your illusions, after all, when you’ve got so little left to you.”

The clock chimed softly. Quarter to midnight.

“That’s me, I suppose,” said Prunella. “Papa’s got the congratulatory toast all ready. Be sure to lock the door when you’re finished. We’d hate for anyone to break in and see our private papers, after all.” She laughed and turned for the door. The slim bar of light from the hallway illuminated the whiteness of her dress. “And, Olive? You will give your notice and leave this house by daybreak, do you understand? Or else I might be forced to whisper our little secret in an ear or two. Just imagine what my poor brother will say when he finds out the truth. To say nothing of your widowed mother.”

“My mother already knows what I’m doing here.”

“Oh, I don’t mean that little thing, Olive. I mean the truth. The real reason my father dismissed the eminent Mr. Van Alan without his fee, and the reason your father didn’t object.”

Because he couldn’t, Olive wanted to scream. Because he couldn’t get another commission if he did.

But screaming wouldn’t help, would it? Screaming wouldn’t unsay the words that hung in the air of the study, wouldn’t quell the drumbeat at the back of Olive’s brain.

Wouldn’t wipe the self-satisfied smirk from Prunella Pratt’s childlike face.

Olive glanced down at the wineglass at the edge of the desk, and a young woman she didn’t know reached out and took that glass by the stem. She blew out the candle and hurried to the door, through which Prunella Pratt had just swept, and she said, in a voice Olive didn’t recognize, “Miss Prunella, you forgot your wine.”

The noise came up like a physical object from the empty column of the grand stairway: laughter and tinkling glass and violins. Prunella turned, and the brassy young woman who wasn’t Olive—whom Olive didn’t recognize but rather adored—dashed an arc of red Burgundy across the splendid cream bodice of the Pratt engagement gown, not forgetting the dainty exposed curves of Miss Prunella’s bosom, to match the pretty pale pink flowers scattered over the satin.

Olive set down the wineglass on the commode and turned away, toward the stairs to the fifth floor and the small door that led to the attic staircase.

She jumped up the steps two at a time, stumbling once, her breath short and her head swimming. By the time she reached the last landing, she could hardly see the door before her; she hardly noticed that it was not closed but ajar, not dark but gently lit.

“Olive! There you are.”

Harry’s arms. Harry’s shoulder against her forehead.

For an instant, she let herself rest. The black wool was so sleek against her hot skin.

And then she pushed away. “Aren’t you going to be missed downstairs?”

“Probably. I don’t care. Why, what’s wrong?”

“You should go back. There are at least a dozen pretty girls waiting for a kiss. I don’t know how you’ll choose among them.”