The Forgotten Room(96)
Lucy shook her head at herself as she started down the narrow back stairs. What a fool she was! Most women wouldn’t consider life with Philip Schuyler too high a price to pay; two weeks ago, the very prospect would have made her feel as Cinderella must, when her prince appeared, slipper in hand.
But that was before she had met John Ravenel.
The third floor of Stornaway House was bustling with activity. On a Saturday, the common room was packed with residents and their guests. Some sat waiting for callers, flipping through brightly illustrated papers; others were having a gossip behind the fronds of the large potted palms Matron had brought in, in an attempt to brighten the heavy woodwork of the dark-paneled room. The mural in the narrow hallway leading to the common room, with its knight rampant and cringing dragon, was all but obscured; only the top of the knight’s spear and his surprised eyes were visible.
Dottie was there, lounging against the wall. She eyed Lucy assessingly as Lucy walked past, and Lucy heard her murmur, “La-di-da,” to her companion, another woman, not a resident, with a too-fussy hat and suspiciously pink cheeks.
Lucy looked for Philip Schuyler’s golden head and didn’t see it. But Matron was there, standing near one of the potted palms, speaking with a gentleman whose back was to Lucy. Lucy’s step slowed as she recognized the curly dark hair, the broad back. Her stomach gave a lurch of excitement, but Dottie was watching, so she made an effort to keep her step steady and a pleasant smile on her face.
“Mr. Ravenel,” she said, proud of how even her voice sounded.
“Miss Young.” He swung around just a little too quickly, the eagerness of the movement belying the calculated politeness of his voice. His eyes caught hers and Lucy knew, with certainty, that nothing she ever felt for Philip Schuyler would be half the equal of this. It was like magic, the current that leapt between them, that made the rest of the room fall away as if it had never been.
Easily, he said, “I was just telling your good Mrs. Johnston that you were kind enough to invite me to see this architectural gem.” In a lower voice, for her ears only, he murmured, “They gave me your message.”
Her heart was pounding, her fingers were tingling, but she managed, somehow, to say in a normal voice, “I thought you might enjoy it.” To Matron: “Mr. Ravenel is a dealer in art and antiquities.”
“So I hear.” Did Matron actually dimple? No, that was too much. But she was looking at Mr. Ravenel with what passed for her as unqualified approval. “I have a reproduction of one of the elder Mr. Ravenel’s paintings. I had the privilege of seeing the original in the Museum of Art in Philadelphia.”
Lucy looked quizzically up at John. She’d had no idea that his father was quite so famous. “We had to let some of the paintings go,” he said to her, as if in answer to a question. “I’ve tried, when possible, to sell to institutions rather than private individuals. My father felt strongly about art being available to everyone, not just the few.”
“But one must make a living?” said Matron.
Lucy wasn’t sure what magic John had wrought, but they appeared to be on excellent terms. Or maybe, she thought giddily, that was just John. He had a way of setting people at ease, making them comfortable in their own skins.
And he had come here. For her. He placed one hand unobtrusively beneath Lucy’s elbow, just a small gesture, not the sort of touch to which Matron could possibly object, but Lucy could feel warmth rushing through her, warmth and the certainty that all would be well, was well.
“This house,” Matron was saying, “is very much a testament to that. The carvings are in themselves works of art. It does seem rather . . . out of proportion that all this was intended, at one time, merely for the private use of one family.”
“I understand the Pratt family used to live here?” John said, so casually that Lucy wouldn’t have known there was anything more to it but for the tightening of his fingers on her elbow.
In the midst of her haze of happiness, she felt a moment’s doubt. But no. Just because he was pursuing his own interests didn’t mean his feelings for her weren’t just as real. She hadn’t imagined the way he looked at her, the touch of his fingers on her elbow, the subtle possessiveness in the way he stood, his body shielding hers, claiming her.
“Their loss is our gain,” Matron said practically. “Such houses have become unwieldy as private homes, but they serve very well for communal living. We were forced to make some changes, of course, but we have done our best to retain the unique character of the house.”
“I was admiring the mural in the hall,” said John. “Saint George?”
“A red-cross knight forever kneeled / To a lady on his shield,” quoted Matron, unexpectedly and fancifully. Apologetically, she said, “Yes, I believe it is Saint George. But if you want to see the real treasure of Stornaway House . . .”
There was a hullaballoo by the billiards table.
Matron broke off with a tsk of annoyance. “If I have told Miss Brennan once, I have told her a dozen times. If her young man provokes one more altercation . . . Forgive me, Mr. Ravenel. I’m afraid I can’t offer you that tour just now. If you would care to return again during visiting hours next weekend . . .”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” John assured her. “But I’m afraid I leave for Charleston on Tuesday.”