The Forgotten Room(92)

“The stone, in the necklace. Was it a ruby?”

She gave a small shrug. “I suppose so. It was dark red and had belonged to my mother, so I assume it was a valuable stone like a ruby.”

I had been about to show her the ruby that was at that moment hanging around my own neck, had even reached toward the top button of my blouse. But I stopped. I replaced my hands in my lap, watching as they trembled. “What sorts of things was her father accused of?”

“Adultery for one. With a client’s wife, no less. Both father and daughter deserved what they got.”

I stared at her for a long moment, realizing that she didn’t know that Olive was my grandmother or that her own stepson had married the daughter of an apparent thief. A maid. Was this the reason for my mother’s secrets?

I stood, my knees shaking, desperate to leave. “I should go,” I said. “And let you rest. I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

She looked almost disappointed, as if she didn’t get visitors very often, and I felt an unwelcome stab of pity for her. Disappointment and regrets. Before I could stop myself, I said, “I’ll come back, if you’d like. You can show me the rest of the scrapbook.”

Her face seemed to brighten, transforming it. “That would be . . . appropriate,” she said. “Just please be sure to let us know when you’ll be here to ensure it’s at a convenient time.”

If I hadn’t been still reeling from what I’d just learned, I might have laughed. “Of course. Thank you again,” I said, then said good-bye to Prunella and her maid.

I nearly stumbled in my haste to get through the outer door, then paused on the outside steps as I sucked in lungfuls of fresh clean air that didn’t taste like bitter regret.



I sat at the desk in Dr. Greeley’s office behind a pile of paperwork, happy for the distraction. He’d seemed surprised when I’d volunteered to tackle the ever-growing pile, but I knew he’d never guess the reason why I chose to hide in a place in which Cooper Ravenel would never think to look.

I’d been avoiding him since the night we’d spent together. Seeing him walking with Caroline was too painful and would have completely dissipated the fantasy cloud I’d created where it was just Cooper and me, and no war, or fiancées, or futures that didn’t involve the other. I found myself dreading his release almost as much as I anticipated it, eager to put the pain behind me. I’d have to take the advice I always gave to my patients, to look forward to each day that took you beyond the pain, that healing would eventually come. I only wished the healing wouldn’t hurt so much.

There was a brief knock on the door and Nurse Hathaway stepped inside, closing it softly behind her. “I’m sorry to bother you, Doctor. But I have something for you and I didn’t think you’d want anybody else to see.”

I sat back in my chair and watched as she placed a small stack of papers on the desk in front of me. “What . . . ?” I stopped, confused for a moment. They were sketches of a woman with dark hair and a heart-shaped face, nude except for the familiar necklace she wore around her neck. I recognized the fireplace in the attic room, and the mullioned windows, and for a moment I thought it was me. Or, I realized for the first time, my mother. Our coloring had been different, but she’d had the same widow’s peak, the same shape of the face. As had her mother.

“Captain Ravenel asked me to give them to you. He said he found them in the drawer of the Chinese cabinet in the attic. He wanted you to know that he’d opened the locked drawer, and that he didn’t want these to end up in the wrong hands.”

Her face remained expressionless, but I thought I saw something in her eyes. “She looks like you,” she said.

I felt myself coloring. “Yes. She does. But it’s not.” I couldn’t meet her eyes. It wasn’t me in the sketch, but it could have been.

“I know,” Nurse Hathaway said. “The artist signed and dated it at the bottom—H. Pratt, 1892.”

She must have said something, but I wasn’t listening. I was too mesmerized by the single signature, the bold H and P of the artist on the bottom corner of sketches of a woman who looked like my grandmother, wearing the necklace that had been stolen from Prunella Pratt.

As if she hadn’t said anything, I said, “Have you shown these to anybody else?”

“No, Doctor. Of course not. I understand it’s a private matter and none of my concern.”

I flipped through the sketches, each one more detailed than the last, as if Harry Pratt had spent a lot of time studying his subject. Olive. My grandmother. I sat back in my chair again, regarding the young woman in front of me. “Why are you always so kind to me, Nurse Hathaway? You must know that I’m not a favorite among the nurses or doctors.”

She grinned broadly. “Because I want to be you. You’re a fine doctor, one of the best I’ve worked with. You know who you are and what you want, and you never give anybody else permission to treat you like you’re less than who you are.”

“Thank you,” I said as I stood and gathered the sketches. I needed to speak with Cooper, to tell him about the necklace, about how my grandmother had been a maid in this building. Perhaps we would be able to figure out how the miniature came to be in his grandfather’s possession. I might even tell him that my grandmother was a thief. But I would not allow him to stand too close, and I could not allow myself to want him to.