The Forgotten Room(89)

I looked down at the crumpled piece of paper clutched in my gloved hands, double-checking that I was in the right place. Prunella Pratt Schuyler had responded to my request for a meeting with a short note scrawled out in bold script. It had been more of a summons than a response, telling me to be at this address at four o’clock Tuesday next. The expensive stationery was at jarring odds with the street on which I stood, the linen paper more appropriate to an Upper East Side debutante than to this Brooklyn neighborhood of immigrant families and the pungent scents of foreign foods. Remembering what Margie had discovered about Prunella in the society pages, I wondered if that false impression might have been intentional.

I was quite certain this wasn’t the same place I’d visited with my parents all those years ago. I had to assume that Prunella’s fortunes since my father’s death had deteriorated drastically, at least to the point where she’d been forced to move to Brooklyn from the Upper East Side. Which, some might argue, would be a fate worse than death.

I waited for a sputtering milk truck to pass and then crossed the street. The haggard mother barely noticed me as I passed her on the steps and entered through tall double doors into what might have once been an attractive foyer in a single residence. But now the black-and-white marble tiles of the floor were cracked and stained, the plaster ceiling moldings mostly missing or water spotted, the fireplace surround absent, presumably salvaged to grace a more deserving residence.

I almost left the building again to check the address one more time, but stopped myself. I recalled the rest of the information Margie had discovered in the newspaper archives about the demise of the Pratt family fortunes related to bad railroad investments, and then the blow the Schuyler family fortune had sustained during the crash of ’29. For a woman like Prunella, who since birth had been brought up and schooled to be nothing more than a society hostess, to end up in a place like this, far away from the familiar world of her youth—it must have been humbling indeed.

The sound of a couple arguing tumbled down the narrow stairs in front of me, the dark green runner of which was threadbare and filthy. A baby cried somewhere in the building, while an out-of-tune piano plunked out a scale behind the door to my right. I looked again at the note in my hand. Apartment 1B. The door opposite the piano, with peeling white paint and only a shadow of where a number one must have once been attached.

I hesitated only a moment before raising my hand and knocking, the sound slightly muted by my glove. I heard a movement inside, like the barest brush of satin against wood, and then nothing. I took off my glove and knocked again with all four knuckles.

This time I heard light but quick footsteps, followed by the sound of several locks being unlatched before the door slowly opened. Two large green eyes beneath a mop of white curly hair peered out at me through the space between the door and frame.

“Mrs. Schuyler? Aunt Prunella? It’s Kate. Kate Schuyler. Philip’s daughter.”

The door widened and the woman stepped back, revealing an old-fashioned and ill-fitting black maid’s uniform complete with starched white apron and cap. Her wide smile alone would have been enough to tell me it wasn’t my aunt Prunella, but when she opened her mouth and words that danced with an Irish brogue fell from her tongue, I knew for certain.

“Och, no. I’m Mona, the maid.” She leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “Herself is still abed, too delicate to leave her room in such weather. Between you and me, she’s the constitution of a bear and will outlive us all.”

She closed the door behind me. “She told me not to offer refreshments, but ye look like ye could use a nice cup of tea. I’ll bring some in just a moment.” She jerked her head to the left. “Herself is right through that door. Give a knock first, or we’ll both be hearing about it.”

I watched Mona waddle away toward another door I assumed led to a kitchen, the tight black fabric stretched and shiny across her back. I wondered if she’d once worked for the Pratts and had stayed with Prunella not necessarily out of loyalty, but because she had no other options.

I took a quick assessment of the room around me, familiar only because of the furniture. It seemed bigger here, out of place in the tiny apartment, with china figurines and objects d’art cluttering the heavy dark wood of the oversized pieces. Small paths had been carved between three large sofas and various accent tables and bookcases to allow passage from one room to the next, giving the room the appearance of the ocean’s surface after the sinking of a large ship, the debris scattered haphazardly without thought of placement or usefulness.

It struck me as incredibly sad how this was all that remained of a once glamorous and privileged life, the beauty of all these things diminished by the peeling wallpaper and faded draperies of the drab apartment. My father had managed Prunella’s finances until his death, which must have precipitated her move across the river. A move she must have loathed, and probably still did. I almost turned away then, to let myself out of the door and into the rain-cleansed air.

“Mona? Who was that? I hope you’re not keeping the door open too long—I don’t want to catch a draft and be chilled.”

The voice hadn’t changed in all those years, the same imperious intonations, the perfect finishing-school accent. It reminded me of my father’s grimace as he told me that we had to visit Aunt Prunella again.

I’m a grown woman. A doctor no less, I reminded myself. I lifted my hand and knocked and, without waiting for a response, pushed the door open.