“Meg is in the hospital!” chimed in Fran from the next desk.
“The hospital?” Lucy echoed, looking from one to the other.
“A taxi swerved and—smash!—there she was, just white as a sheet and all crumpled on the ground,” jumped in Fran. “Right outside!”
Miss Meechum glared at Fran. “Frances is, unfortunately, correct.”
“Oh, goodness,” said Lucy helplessly. “I hope she’s all right.”
“If one can call a fractured leg and broken wrist all right,” said Miss Meechum tartly. “I suppose it might have been worse, and, for that, one must be grateful, but—”
“They say she won’t be back to work for months,” contributed Fran. “And she might have a limp.”
“The limp,” said Miss Meechum, “is the least of our worries.” She thrust an armload of files at Lucy. “Mr. Schuyler needed these fifteen minutes ago.”
Lucy ignored the implied reproach. Breathlessly, she said, “But what about Mr. Cochran and Mr. Vaughn?”
“I’ve assigned Frances to Mr. Cochran and Eleanor to Mr. Vaughn,” said Miss Meechum briskly. She gathered herself together, sounding a bit more like her old self. Looking over her spectacles warningly, she said, “This is a position of trust. Treat it accordingly.”
Lucy clasped the files to her damp chest. “Yes, Miss Meechum.”
Her heart was pounding beneath her blouse. The room at the Pratt house . . . and now Mr. Schuyler. As though it were meant.
“Sometime today, Lucy,” warned Miss Meechum.
Lucy shook herself out of her reverie. “Yes, Miss Meechum. Of course, Miss Meechum. Right away, Miss Meechum.”
From far away, she could hear Fran giggle. Lucy ignored it.
There was no such thing as fate. One made one’s own luck. And she was going to make hers.
For now, that meant making sure Mr. Schuyler got the Merola contracts.
Lucy suppressed the wish that she had had time to go to the washroom, refresh her lipstick, brush her hair. That didn’t matter. She wasn’t here to vamp Mr. Schuyler. In fact, she was fairly sure that was part of the reason she had been chosen as Meg’s replacement, even though Frannie and Eleanor were both more senior. But all of Eleanor’s meager mental powers were devoted toward her own upcoming nuptials—everyone in the office had already heard of the great bridesmaid dress debacle—and as for Frannie . . . Well, Frannie was on the hunt for a husband.
Miss Meechum was very protective of her employers.
Tentatively, Lucy knocked on Mr. Schuyler’s door. The brass plate read PHILIP C.J. SCHUYLER, ESQUIRE.
She wondered what the C and the J were for. Charles James? Cornelius Justinius?
There was no answer from within. Lucy heard the scrape of a chair being pushed back, then the sound of Mr. Schuyler’s voice, distinctly irritated. “I already told you—not again.” A pause. “Yes, I know. But it’s not my decision.”
“Sir?” Lucy poked her head around the door.
The wide mahogany desk in front of Philip Schuyler was littered with documents. Mr. Schuyler himself was kicked back in his chair, the telephone receiver in one hand, a grimace on his handsome face.
“Come in!” he said, and then, back into the phone, “No, Prunella.”
Prunella? Lucy’s ears pricked up. It wasn’t precisely a common name. Prunella Pratt was the sole living scion of the once illustrious Pratt family—and Philip Schuyler’s stepmother.
She had been a debutante in the 1890s, still living in the family home. If Lucy’s mother had lived in that house, had stayed there, Prunella would know. And she might—Lucy clung to the frail hope—just might be the most likely person to know what had become of Harry Pratt.
Yes, and Lucy could just see herself taking the receiver from her startled employer and saying, Pardon me, Mrs. Schuyler, you don’t know me from Adam, but do you think I might be the illegitimate child of your brother? And, by the way, do you happen to know if your brother is still alive, and, if so, where he might be?
That would certainly go over well. As in being handed a pink slip and booted out into the street well.
Holding up the files, Lucy mimed moving back toward the door. “I can come back,” she mouthed.
Mr. Schuyler shook his head, gesturing her forward as he spoke into the phone. “Look, I’m sorry the people at Cartier’s are giving you nasty looks, but there are three other trustees.”
Mangled by the receiver, the sounds coming through sounded like the chickens Lucy’s grandmother had once kept in a coop behind the bakery.
Philip Schuyler held the phone away from his ear, grimacing expressively at Lucy.
Lucy kept her face deliberately impassive, her spine very straight. Miss Meechum didn’t approve of secretarial staff fraternizing with their employers.
As the squawking died down, Mr. Schuyler put the receiver back to his ear. “Look, we’ll discuss this tomorrow, all right? I’ve a client waiting for me.” He winked at Lucy. “Yes. Right now. A very important client. No. It can’t wait. Yes, I know it’s terrible to have to work for a living.”