As Olive opened the small service door in the basement, then climbed up the iron staircase to the street, she heard sounds of life at last. A commotion was taking place on the street outside, a most untoward commotion, involving a delivery wagon and a number of men in a high state of furor. They were carrying something from the back of the wagon, long and thick and wrapped in blankets, and as Olive paused in astonishment next to the small iron gate, a head lolled to the side from one end of the bundle, blond-haired and bloodstained, and she realized that it belonged to Gus Pratt.
“Why, what’s happened?” she exclaimed, and one of the men turned and spoke in an Irish lilt.
“Got himself in a wee bit of a brawl, didn’t he, poor bugger. Knocked on the old head.”
“Is he alive?”
“Only just, miss.”
Two of the men began to pound on the great double door, while the others hoisted Gus on their shoulders, in the manner of pallbearers. Olive clutched her valise and stared at Gus’s senseless head, and she thought, So this is what the house was waiting for.
She stood there until the door opened at last, and a cry sounded from within. The men hustled Gus inside, and the door slammed behind them, echoing down the empty street, into the dawn of the New Year.
Twenty-seven
JULY 1920
Lucy
“Young!”
It was Dottie, one of the other residents, shouting through Lucy’s door. The door was closed, but the wood was thin, not like the thick oak of the doors downstairs.
Lucy cracked the door open. “Yes?”
She didn’t much like Dottie, who had a rude laugh and a habit of leaving her stockings hanging in the bathroom.
“Gentleman caller to see you,” said Dottie. She jerked a thumb toward the stairs. “With Matron.”
Lucy started to close the door. “I’ll be right down.”
“Well, la-di-da,” said Dottie, and flounced off in a wave of scent.
With trepidation, Lucy pinned on her collar, straightened her cuffs, anchored the pins that held up her hair in a low knot on the back of her neck. There was something about the way Dottie had said gentleman . . . a leer and a hint of envy. Philip had promised to give her time, but Philip was Philip and accustomed to being granted his every whim.
Was that what she was? A whim? Lucy’s fingers went automatically to the chain around her throat. Much, she suspected, as her mother had been to Harry Pratt.
Philip had offered her answers, but she wasn’t sure, now, that she wanted those answers. Or the price she would have to pay for them.
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.”