“She doesn’t, does she?” Lucy whispered. “Your Annabelle—she doesn’t want a divorce.”
“We’ll work something out,” said John curtly.
“Work out what?” With jerky fingers, Lucy scooped up her blouse from the floor. “A miserable court battle? Your little boy torn to bits? I won’t, John. I won’t be party to that. You made your choice.” Lucy choked on something between a laugh and a sob. “Till death do you part.”
“But that was before I knew you.” John reached for her, desperation in every line of his body.
Lucy dodged his hands, her eyes so blurred with tears she could hardly see. “You don’t get a do-over.” She yanked her blouse up over her shoulders, buttoning it with shaking fingers. “Go back to Charleston, John. Go back to your wife.”
“Lucy.” She heard his voice from behind her, through a fog. “Lucy, I can’t live without you.”
Lucy pressed a hand to her lips. Oh, God, what a time to discover each other.
“You’re just going to have to, won’t you?” she said, and yanked at the door, struggling with the warped boards, the stiff knob.
Ever the gentleman, John reached around her, opening the door for her. It was a good thing he was behind her. The gesture sent a fresh burst of pain through Lucy. Without turning her head, she said, unevenly, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She could see John’s arm tremble slightly beneath the weight of the heavy door. Softly, he said, “Because I was afraid I might lose you.”
She couldn’t look at him. If she did, she would lose all control.
In a strangled voice, Lucy said, “I’m sure Matron will see you out.” And then, before she could weaken, “Because I don’t want to see you. Ever again.”
She bolted down the stairs, her footsteps echoing on the same treads her mother had taken those many years ago, leaving John behind her, a dark shadow in the doorway of the forgotten room.
She made it down to her own room, her back against the flimsy panes of the door before she broke down entirely, sobbing with great, gulping, silent sobs, her entire body wracked with pain. John must have left, she supposed; she didn’t know, she didn’t want to know. It was easier to hate him, to blame him, when she was away from him. One look, one soft word, and she would be in his arms—and then what?
Maybe what John said was true—maybe there was no love lost between him and his Annabelle— but there was his son, Cooper. How could she do that to the boy? John might think it would all work out in the end, but Lucy knew better. And John—in the fatigue of despair, she knew the truth of it—John would come to hate her in the end, his love weakened by the constant stresses of their situation, being pulled between his lover and his son.
No. Unsteadily, Lucy pushed herself to her feet. Her skirt was crumpled; her hair disarranged. Mechanically, she dragged herself to the rickety chest that passed as a dressing table.
Day had turned to dusk without her being aware; she had to squint to see herself as she pulled a comb through her hair, shoving the ruby pendant away, deep down in the bottom of a drawer. A fresh blouse, a clean skirt. Lucy moved as stiffly as a carousel horse, bobbing up and down on its appointed track.
She knew where she needed to go, what she needed to do.
Her legs felt detached, rubbery, as they covered the few blocks from Stornaway House to the apartment building on Park Avenue. She waited as the doorman buzzed upstairs; time didn’t seem to matter. She was wrapped in the cool calm of despair, impervious to the speculative glance of the elevator man as the wood-paneled box lifted her up to a private landing, a marble floor, a large Chinese vase serving as an umbrella stand.
Lucy barely noticed any of this. Her eyes were on the man standing in the doorway. He had shaved since the morning, although his eyes still bore the signs of sleeplessness. After John, he seemed somehow insubstantial, his fair hair too light, his eyes too pale, his body too thin.
But the smile that lit his eyes on seeing her was completely genuine. “Lucy! Dare I hope—that is, would you like to come in?”
Lucy felt a little of the hard knot in her chest begin to dissolve. Just a little.
“Philip,” she said, and was surprised at how steady her voice sounded. “Philip, I will marry you.”
“Well, then,” said Philip Schuyler, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he beamed at her. “You’d better come in, then, hadn’t you?”
“Aren’t you fancy?” Dottie leaned against the open doorway of the washroom, a pair of damp stockings draped over her arm.