Her stifled giggle sounded rusty, like wind chimes hanging too long beneath the summer rain.
“Forgive me,” I said. “I couldn’t help overhearing. You said you were betrothed?”
All the merriment vanished from the girl’s light eyes. “Yes. I—?I am to wed in the autumn.”
“And you are not happy about it,” I said, faking a theatrical sigh. “Well, I understand that all too well.”
I watched her face as she puzzled over my words. The wealthy socialite was probably used to girls squealing in delight over how she’d landed a duke. My empathy intrigued her. I could see it. Still, her upbringing came to the fore and made her cautious. She held out a slim white hand.
“I’m Consuelo,” she said, omitting the powerful surname. “Connie. And you are?”
“Hope Randolph,” I said, taking her fingertips in mine. “Of the Lafayette Parish Randolphs. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
I drew a handkerchief from my sleeve and dabbed my eyes, attempting an Oscar-worthy performance. “I’m to take ship for England soon.” I raised my eyes to Connie’s and let her witness my faux misery as I whispered, “To be married.”
Connie’s slender throat bobbed as she swallowed in sympathy. Quickly, I laid my ace on the table. “He’s a Scottish earl,” I choked. “I have only met him once. Daddy made all the arrangements, and though I am grateful . . .” I let my voice fade, so that she had to lean close as I dropped my head. “The truth is that I feel so desperately alone.”
A few seconds of silence passed while I stared into my lap, gritting my teeth and wondering if I’d overplayed it.
This has to work. Has to—?
Connie reached for my hand and squeezed until I thought it would crumple into a bag of bone fragments. For a fragile-looking little thing, she was strong as an ox.
I looked up to find that her lovely blue eyes were wet. Her lips trembled as she leaned toward me and whispered, “You poor thing.”
I smiled, trying to emulate her little wobbly lip. She sniffed and reached for her own lace handkerchief. “And yet, has it not always been this way for girls of our station? We are sold off to the highest bidder for money or power or titles. We pay the price while our families reap the rewards. But are they sent far from home? Far from all they have ever known?” Her voice dropped into a fierce whisper. “Are they forced to bring someone they barely know and care nothing for into their bed? Are they ripped away from the one they truly . . .”
Connie bit back the rest of the statement, but in my head I filled in the blanks: the one they truly love.
When the sour tang of sympathy coated the back of my throat, I forced myself to swallow it down.
Keep on task, Walton. Sure, it’s sad and all, but you can’t help her. You can’t.
I met her miserable gaze with one of my own. “I understand completely. I only wish I did not have to spend my last few days alone. It is only that I am so new in town, and do not know anyone. I suppose I shall simply stay in my room and bear it all alone until my ship sets sail.”
Come on. Come on. Take the hint.
Connie snapped upright in her chair and turned to me. “Oh, but you must attend my parents’ soiree the night after tomorrow,” she said, eyes widening as the idea took hold. “Oh, say you will come. You are the only one who understands.”
From just outside the salon door came a commotion. Alva’s maid was weaving toward us. I didn’t see Phoebe, but I could tell from the way Connie stiffened that our time was up.
Perfect white teeth clamped down on her full lower lip as she leaned closer. “Please,” she said. “Say you will come.”
“I would love to,” I told her, taking a chance. “But I couldn’t possibly attend without my guardians. My father would be scandalized.”
“Name them,” she said, “and it is done.”
As I quickly whispered the names of all my friends, Consuelo pulled a tiny book from her drawstring bag and wrote each one down with a miniature gold-plated pencil.
“Miss Vanderbilt,” the maid pressed. “Your mother awaits you een the carriage. Eet is time. You know she will not like thees delay.”
Consuelo nodded again. Standing, she smoothed her skirts, all impeccable manners and propriety. As the maid turned to lead her out, the sad-faced girl looked at me once more.
“I shall have the invitations sent over right away,” she said in a hushed tone. “I hope to see you there. I—?I should very much like to have someone to talk to.”
Chapter 22
SEATED ON THE EDGE OF A GLOSSY PADDED CHAIR IN THE Waldorf’s grand lobby, I had a good view of both the front entrance and the discreet service door Phoebe had disappeared through a half hour earlier, following a lead whispered by one of the chambermaids.
As I waited for everyone else to return from their assignments, the corset dug relentlessly into my rib cage. You did good, I told myself, partly to pull my thoughts away from the pain. You accomplished your mission, and you didn’t get personally involved. Aunt Lucinda would be proud.
So why did I feel like I’d just kicked a kitten?
A shout bled through from the street outside the main entrance, snatching me from that line of thought. The brass doors swung open.
“You! Come back here! I say . . . Boy! You don’t—”
The rest of the doorman’s harangue faded when I saw Doug shamble inside. Clothes rumpled. Steel specs askew on his broad cheekbones. Collar loose and a pocket on his tweed coat ripped away. His panicked gaze scraped the room.
“H-Hope?”
Before I knew it, I was on my feet and hurtling across the shiny expanse toward him.
“Doug, what’s wrong?” My heart rate ratcheted up at his odd, unfocused look. “Do you need your meds? Tell me.”
“Attacked,” he managed. “Someone s-stuck me with a . . . with a . . .”
His hand went to his throat. A line of drool spilled from one side of his mouth. His eyes locked with mine. Then they rolled to white as he fell forward and collapsed against me.
My friend outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds. I tried to keep him upright, but his bulk took us both down hard. We crashed to the floor in a heap.
“Doug!” I screamed as I wrenched myself from beneath him and shoved him over onto his back. “Can you hear me?”
Think, Hope. Think. What do you do for a seizure? What?
Doug’s large hands clenched into fists. Every muscle in his body had gone as rigid as the floor beneath him. The tendons in his neck strained and stretched against the high collar. His chin wrenched up and the back of his head began slamming against the unforgiving marble again and again.
When I’d first learned of Doug’s condition, I’d done my research. Just in case. An article for family members of epileptic patients rushed through my head.